


That Can be Arranged

by Tyrrible



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Eivor and Randvi are best friends, Eventual Smut, Everyone is a little younger, F/M, Face-Sitting, Female Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sigurd never went east, Ubba is done with Ivarr's shit, Wedding Night, enemies to spouses to friends to lovers, viking wedding traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrrible/pseuds/Tyrrible
Summary: As the armies of Harold Fair-Hair March across the icy lands of Norway, conquering each clan one by one, Styrbjorn Jarl makes the decision to move the Raven Clan to England. With him, he brings his two children, Sigurd, born of his own blood, and Eivor, his adopted daughter. At just nineteen winters, Eivor is becoming a mighty drengr in her own right, but her search for conquest and fame in the lands of England is put in peril when her father must make the decision to secure an alliance with the sons of Ragnar, at any cost. The fee of friendship is priced as Eivor’s hand in marriage to Ubba’s younger brother Ivar.Ivarr. Boneless. King Killer. Son of Ragnar. He is known by many names. Husband is not one of them. His bouts of mania and penchant for regicide have cost his brother Ubba several nights’ rest, many alliances, and a hoard of silver. Hoping that  the match between Ivarr and the daughter of the Raven Clan’s Jarl might make Ubba an ally for once, and the more fanciful hope that married life might soften Ivarr from a beast into a man, he and Styrbjorn arrange for the wedding to take place in two moon cycles. Come Hel or high water.
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Ívar beinlausi Ragnarsson | Ivar the Boneless
Comments: 65
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my fic! This chapter will be a slightly altered timeline of the beginning of the game and will very quickly branch out to be very much an alternate universe. Eivor/Ivarr is the eventual pairing. Please let me know what you think in the comments!

Chapter 1: Arrival

Eivor slowly blinked away the weariness as she woke with the rising sun. The longship below her creaked as it rocked gently, threatening to lul her back into the land of dreams, but her brother was alerted to her wakefulness as she reached up to brush away the stinging, salt-crusted sand from her eyes. 

“Sister!” Sigurd exclaimed, far too loudly for Eivor’s bleary mind. “Awaken, Eivor. England is on the horizon!” 

Eivor shook off her brother’s hold as he tried to forcibly pull her up to see beyond the flanks of their shared river steed. At first, as she stood herself up and faced the bow of the longship, the view seemed much the same as it had for the last fortnight - endless blue waves against an even bluer sky. In the distance, however, there was a dot of blackness that had not been there the previous day. 

“Father!” Eivor called to Styrbjorn Jarl, who commanded the ship in the center of their great fleet. “Have you truly sailed us to this small island? Is this where we will find greatness?”

Sigurd shook with laughter at young Eivor’s appalled facial expression. “Fear not, Wolf-Kissed,” Styrbjorn called from his ship, “for we are several hours away yet. Ragnar Lothbrok found a vast land brimming with great riches. There will be plenty of lands here to settle.”  
“You heard father, little one!” Sigurd grinned “Plenty of land. Now, please take your turn commanding the ship so that I might have some rest before we reach the shores of our new home.”

“I’ve got nineteen winters Sigurd. I’m not so little any more,” Eivor smarted, rolling her eyes as she made her way to stand at the back of the longship. 

Amid calling out orders to the oarsmen ss the small black dot became a larger big dot that finally shifted into a green mass, Eivor had time to sink into her thoughts. It had been a long time since her feet had touched soil on Midgard, and even longer since the ground had felt solid beneath her. The last several moon cycles had been a blur, a flurry of frantic motion. From a raid gone wrong to nearly becoming Kjotve the Cruel’s thrall to finally ending the life of the very same man, the very earth seemed to have shifted, opening a chasm within her. Her purpose was fulfilled, but it didn’t bring her the joy or satisfaction she had anticipated. 

She hadn’t spoken to even Sigurd about her feelings. Not that there had been much time to speak of anything as word of Harald Fair-Hair’s army planning to march its way south from Hordafylke reached their settlement. The self-proclaimed First King of Norway fully intended to take Rygjafylke and force Styrbjorn to bend the knee, by whatever warcraft or diplomacy was required. 

Rather than bend his knee to any man, Styrbjorn had decided, instead, to retreat, taking whichever citizens of Rygjafylke who wished to follow with him. The decision did not come easily to the once-King. He had met privately with his children to discuss the matter of their heirship and the options at hand. In the end, they had all agreed that whatever dangers and trials lurked in England paled in comparison to the thought of bowing to another. Harad could keep his icebergs, for there was a greener pasture awaiting them. 

________________________

The first moon cycle that the Raven Clan spent in their little patch of England was just as frantic as their last moon cycles in Norway. Immediately upon setting foot on the shores of their encampment, which they dubbed Ravensthorpe, there were hungry mouths to feed and shivering masses to house, albeit in mostly temporary situations. Eivor was even allowed to lead her first solo raid on English soil in order to gain the materials and supplies necessary to rebuild the longhouse abandoned by the sons of Ragnar. Though it had been thrilling to lead without Sigurd’s ever watchful eye, there was still a sense of hollowness she couldn’t place. 

After the longhouse was finished, Eivor had enjoyed exactly one feast and one night in her own bed before duty called again, this time to Grantebridgescire. There, she made her people friends in the form of a Dane called Soma, Jarlskona of her clan. Eivor had helped them retake their city from the Saxon lord Wigmund. She’d also eradicated a traitor from their midst and brought home a new raider, Birna. Eivor hadn’t exactly asked if she should bring home strays, but was prepared to defend Birna as a great addition to her longship. With one arm ring secured for the Raven Clan, they were one step closer to becoming an established and respected settlement in England. And yet, there was still a sense of hollowness as Eivor guided the crew back to the docks at Ravensthorpe. 

After ensuring that her crew had helped bring in the supplies and silver they had collected during their excursion, Eivor trudged her way up the hill to the longhouse. She was ready to drown in a horn of mead, eat her fill, and collapse into her bed. 

The next morning, Eivor awoke with an ache behind her eyes and a churning in her stomach that announced to her just how many horns of mead she had downed the night before. She had filled the strange hollowness in her chest with mead until finally succumbing to sleep. Now, she splashed her face with cool water from the basin in the corner of the room to get rid of the last remnants of her mead soaked evening. 

As she was slowly dressing for the day in her armor, Randvi, Sigurd’s wife, peeked behind the curtain and cleared her throat. 

“It’s just me, Eivor,” Randvi spoke softly, noticing Eivor in just her pants and bindings. “May I come in?’

“Of course, Randvi,” Eivor smiled. The grin felt foreign on her face, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had worn the expression. “It has been a long time since we have spoken.”

Randvi nodded, stepping behind Eivor to help buckle her chest armor. “It has. Styrbjorn Jarl had kept you and Sigurd very busy. But the clan is doing well and growing quickly thanks to you both.”

“Where is my brother, anyway?” Eivor asked. “I would have thought you both might have still been sleeping after the feast last night.”

Randvi shook her head. “Sigurd was up before Sól. He and Styrbjorn Jarl sailed for Ledecestrescire. The sons of Ragnar were last heard of there, and Styrbjorn would like to make an alliance and learn more of this land from them. They asked me to tell you to meet them there as soon as you are able.”

Eivor nodded. “An alliance with the Ragnarssons will be beneficial to the clan. I will leave immediately.” On her way out, Eivor paused. “Are you to oversee the clan in our absence?” she asked. 

“I am,” Randvi answered. Eivor smiled at her friend. To be a leader was a good look on Randvi, as it should be for the wife to the future Jarl. 

“Good. We are in capable hands,” she commented. “I delivered supplies to the site of Gunnar’s forge before the feast. Will you ask anyone who is able to help with building it? I had intended to, but it seems I am needed elsewhere.”

“That can be arranged, Eivor. It will be finished when you return.”

With that, Eivor went down to the docks to gather her crew from their barracks. As they loaded the longship, the hollow feeling in Eivor’s chest shifted into anticipation. For what, she did not know. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, she couldn’t help but feel the gods were leading her to something new.


	2. That Will Leave a Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr makes his grand entrance, fresh from the battle that gave him his scar. Ubba is not impressed.

Chapter 2: That Will Leave a Scar  
“IVARR!” the voice of Ubba Ragnarsson boomed, the elongated vowels echoing against the longhouse walls in his absolute rage. 

“Hush, brother,” Ivar grunted. “Can you not see that I am busy?”

Busy. Yes, Ubba could see that his younger brother was quite busy. So busy bleeding from the jagged wound across his face, in fact, that their healer Katla was occupied by attempting to sew Ivarr back together one stitch at a time. To his credit, Ivarr hardly flinched at each pass of the sharpened quill and drag of fine silken thread. 

“If the wound doesn’t kill you, I just might,” Ubba growled. “Have you any idea of what you have done? The wreckage that will occur if I cannot fix your mess? Rhodri is threatening to raze this land to take your head. All of Briton will soon descend upon this camp!”

“Stop with your endless nagging, brother,” Ivarr sneered, rolling his eyes. “I was planning to kill the king. Problem solved.”

“Kill the king? You went to kill a king, King Rhodri at that, with a half-cocked plan and less than a dozen men, without my knowledge, and expected that to solve our problems?” Ubba inquired, dumbfounded. “You have not solved anything, Ivarr. Instead, Rhodri has been gracious enough to give me three choices: Kill you. Banish you. Or war, the likes of which we have not the forces to win. So tell me, brother, how exactly should I fix this mess?”

Ivarr sighed and stood, pushing Katla to the side as he did so. Blood was still oozing from the wound, but it had closed enough that what remained was slowing into gelatinous sludge. Without Katla blocking the way, Ubba could see that the wound snaked from Ivarr’s hairline, through his eye, and back around his cheek to meet the corner of his mouth. The halfwit was lucky he hadn’t lost the eye completely. 

“Let me finish it then,” Ivarr barked. “I will kill that cocksucking bacraut!” 

“No,” Ubba murmured. “No, Ivarr. You will retire to your room, where you will rest and, gods allow it, not die from infection. You will remain in your quarters until I have decided what to do with you. You have nearly twenty-three winters, but if you wish to act like a suckling babe, then I will treat you as one. Should you step so much as one foot from the threshold of your door, you will not be granted the death befitting a Ragnarsson. Am I understood?”

Ivarr did not deign to answer his older brother. He simply stormed out of the great hall and to his quarters. He vowed to any gods that would listen that he would one day finish his task and end Rhodri’s life, but today was not that day. For now, he would sleep off the philter that the healer had shoved down his throat before stitching his wound. Then, Ubba could go fuck himself. He had a king to kill. But first, sleep. 

Shortly after banishing Ivarr to his chamber like a spoiled princeling, Ubba looked up from the table covered in scattered maps of Briton to a squawk and the flap of a raven’s wings. He’d been expecting word from his men at the nearby camp, but this was not a raven that he recognized. The creature hopped around her perch on his table and flapped its wings, obviously unwilling to give her message without a trade. 

“Your master has not taught you very many manners, has he?” Ubba chuckled, reaching into the pouch at his hip for a chunk of dried meat. “If I give you this, will you let me have you message?”

The raven croaked happily and snatched the piece of meat from Ubba’s hand and the Ragnarsson made quick work of untying the leather strip from around her leg and retrieving the small scroll while the little beast was distracted.

Unrolling the scroll, the first thing that Ubba noticed was the strangeness to the runes inscribed there. These runes certainly weren’t written by a Dane’s hand, but were far more decipherable than any Saxon’s sorry attempt at his language. 

_Sons of Ragnar,_

_I am Styrbjorn Jarl, formerly of the region of Rygjafylke, Norway. I have sent this raven, Synin, ahead of my convoy to alert you that I and my son have come to speak with the Sons of Ragnar regarding an alliance between our clans. We have settled the original piece of land that your father occupied and have named it Ravensthorpe. Having found it abandoned by all but bandits, we assumed that this would cause no great offense._

_We hope that we will find peace and friendship within the walls of your city._

_Styrbjorn, Jarl of Ravensthorpe_

The great hall of the longhouse was quickly filled with mead, fresh meat and bread, and a variety of merrymakers as Ubba called a feast to be arranged in preparation for the arrival of Styrbjorn Jarl. Ubba could only pray that this man’s arrival was a blessing from Freyr and not one of Loki’s cruel tricks. 

Ubba made his way down to the docks just as a longship bearing a mast with two encircling ravens came into view. Synin, who had been following him and occasionally pecking him for more treats since her arrival, gave a trilling caw and flew onto the ship. 

“I am Ubba Ragnarsson,” he greeted. “I assume you are that creature’s master,” Ubba laughed, extending his arm to the Jarl who stepped off the ship. 

“Styrbjorn of the Raven Clan.” Clasping arms with the Ragnarsson, Styrbjorn shook his head. “I’m afraid she is not. She belongs to my daughter, Eivor, though I do borrow her services from time to time.”

“Your daughter?” Ubba asked. “Your letter mentioned a son,” he stated, nodding his head to the tall, redheaded warrior just behind his father. 

“Yes,” Styrbjorn agreed. “This is my son Sigurd.” Ubba clasped arms with Sigurd and Styrbjorn continued on. “I also have a daughter,” he explained, “Eivor, though she and her ship will be a few hours behind us, perhaps even a day.” 

“A daughter,” Ubba nodded, a plan beginning to form in the back of his mind. “We will make sure that she is well received upon her arrival. For now, please follow me into the longhouse. I have prepared for you a feast, where we shall discuss the terms of our friendship.” 

______________________________________________________________________

When Eivor’s longship landed at the docks in Repton, she and her crew was met by a few of the Ragnarssons’ men before being escorted to the longhouse. Walking through the city, she could tell that this had once belonged to the Saxons and there were many scars in the architecture from what she assumed had been the raid that conquered the region for the sons of Ragnar. 

The relatively new-looking longhouse was near the center of the town, built on the grave of what was likely a large monument to the Saxon god. A church, she thought they may have called it. Around it, Danish buildings were slowly replacing the burnt out shells of what were once Saxon homes and businesses. A new, greater Dane city was slowly but surely rising from the ashes of this Saxon corpse, much like she hoped Ravensthorpe would rise from the abandoned squalor it had been left in. 

It was not difficult to find her father and Sigurd when she entered the great hall. They were seated at the head of the long feast table beside a large man in fine armor. His hair was shaved fashionably at the sides and he wore the long center in a fine braid decorated with beads and hoops of silver. ‘This must be one of the sons of Ragnar’, she thought, ‘but where are his brothers?’

“Father,” Eivor greeted as she stepped up behind them to take the empty seat between him and the Sigurd. “I see that you are making fast friends.”

Styrbjorn smiled warmly at his adopted daughter and passed her a horn full of mead. The Jarl made all of the necessary introductions as Eivor drank from the horn. He did not have time to catch her up on their dealings, however, before there was a loud crash. The mead hall went silent as a shorter man with short, dark hair styled in an undercut stormed his way to the head of the table. 

He was oddly striking, with intense dark eyes narrowed into a glare. Where Ubba reminded Eivor of a bear, all muscle and strength, this man reminded her of a lynx on the hunt. He moved with a fluidity despite his obvious ill attitude. But more striking was the raw, freshly stitched wound that ran the length of his face. 

“Ah,” Ubba murmured. “And here comes the brother that I spoke of. Raven Clan, this is Ivarr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Please leave your thoughts in the comments!


	3. To Gain an Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insight into why Ivarr behaves the way he does. Styrbjorn and Ubba make a deal.

Chapter 3: To Gain an Ally  
 _Ivarr._ The name rolled around in Eivor’s mind. She could feel the presence of Odin behind her, his gaze ever watchful, as _Ivarr_ stalked his way up the Ragnarssons’ great mead hall. 

_This is why I have brought you here,_ the soft voice of the Allfather whispered in her ear. _You feel it. It is only a matter of time. He will either change you or destroy you. But that is up to you._

Something in her stomach, that feeling of hollowness, quickly turned to nauseous dread. Odin had always watched her. She had always felt his presence. Most Norsemen would quite literally throw themselves on an axe to speak to Odin, but his words to her became increasingly mad as she aged. Then again, perhaps it was the mead. Regardless, she quickly downed another horn of mead, feeling she was going to need it for whatever political horseshit was about to explode upon her. 

“You did not tell me that we were receiving guests brother,” Ivarr sneered at Ubba. Slipping behind his older brother, he bent to whisper in his ear, “Afraid I’ll try and kill them, too?”

“Ubba sighed. He did not know why Ivarr took it upon himself to thwart his attempts to secure alliances at each and every turn, but here they were. He only hoped that the young Ragnarsson would behave himself over dinner and the conversation he was planning to have with Styrbjorn in private this evening would go as he’d planned. 

“Ivarr, sit down and join us,” Ubba offered tensely. “I had expected you to still be resting after your battle today.”

“Battle?” Sigurd asked, either attempting to break the thick tension between the brothers or unaware it existed. Eivor was not sure which. “I am sure that a son of Ragnar has much prowess as a Drengr. Tell us of your great battle, Ivarr!” 

“Son of Ragnar,” Ivarr scoffed. “And that is what is wrong with all of you people, isn’t it? ‘Song of Ragnar’ this and ‘Ragnarsson’ that-”

“Ivarr!” Ubba snapped. “You will cease your ill manners or you will retire for the night.”

Ivarr turned his glare from Sigurd to Ubba. “No, brother. Enough. Would they care for our friendship if Ragnar was not our father? No! But Ragnar is dead. I am not Ragnar. I will be greater than our father. My sagas will be more grand and sung more loudly. And I do not need a fleeting alliance to get there. I need only members of my own blood, brother.”

Ivarr slammed his horn down onto the table and pushed himself up. In his angry speech, he had moved his face too much and it was now oozing slowly again, a river of blood dripping from his chin. He had a savage sort of beauty, Eivor thought distantly, even though he was a brash, insulting bikkja. 

Ubba sighed to himself as he watched his brother leave the longhouse. At least with his face such a mess he wouldn’t go far. He hoped.

“I apologize for my brother. He was young when father was killed. He never did forgive him for dying.” Ubba refilled his mead horn. “Eivor, Sigurd. Perhaps you should explore the city for a while? I have much to discuss with your father. Despite my brother, I assure you that you will find only friends within my walls.”

Eivor nodded. “Come brother. We should visit their alehouse. I will surely best you in a drinking contest there,” she grinned. 

______________________________________________________________________

When Ubba was sure that the two young Ravens were out of earshot and out of sight, he motioned for Styrbjorn to follow him into the back room of the longhouse, where a war room full of maps and battle models was attached to his sleeping quarters. It was here that he would divulge his plan for forging a strong bond between their clans. 

Styrbjorn followed Ubba without complaint or any ill will. Ivarr had reminded him of the girl that Eivor once was, and still was occasionally if he were honest with himself, after her parents’ deaths. She had been battle hungry, determined to end Kjotve’s life for years. She had been obsessed at times, even. But more than that, she was obsessed with proving herself; her honor, her worth, her legacy were all tied to Kjotve’s still-beating heart. Or so she had believed. 

“I want you to know that I will not hold your brother’s behavior against you, Ubba,” Sigurd spoke calmly. “I still believe that an alliance between our clans can be mutually beneficial.”

Ubba grinned. Perhaps this would go better than he had anticipated. “For that, I am gladdened. First, here is what I am willing to offer you, Styrbjorn Jarl,” he began, pulling out maps and models and tables. 

“Here is an overview of where we have our men currently occupying. I am willing to spare these two forces here and here,” he pointed to two groups in the southeast of Ledecesterschire, near Ravensthorpe “to offer protection and military power to your clan. You may also access the forest that spans between them and the quarry to the west for supplies and hunting at your behest.”

Styrbjorn was stunned at the generosity of Ubba Ragnarsson. What he had offered so far was far more than Styrbjorn would have ever considered asking for with what little his clan currently had to offer. What the price for this friendship would be, Styrbjorn could only wonder. 

“You may also have raiding rights to any of the monasteries along this river here. And the town my father abandoned, of course,” Ubba finished. 

“And…” Styrbjorn paused, settling himself to hear the answer to the question he would ask. “What will you ask in return?”

Ubba smiled. “Not much, in the grander scheme of things,” he answered. “I would ask a tax of fifty percent of any silver earnings for five winters, along with forge and shipyard services for my fleet, or-” 

“Or?” Styrbjorn grunted. Not much? Fifty percent. For five winters?

“Is Eivor married? Or betrothed?” 

Styrbjorn gave a great guffaw. “That is what you were leading up to? You desire to wed Eivor after meeting her for a single night? It would be very costly to lose her from our clan, but-”

“You misunderstand, Styrbjorn,” Ubba interrupted. At Styrbjorn’s confused expression, he continued. “I want Eivor’s hand, to join our clans, but not for myself,” he explained. “I wish to arrange a marriage between her and Ivarr. You would, in fact, be gaining a Drengr, not losing one.”

“Ivarr,” the Norseman grunted. “You wish me to take Ivarr off your hands. In exchange for all this...” 

Styrbjorn sat quietly for a moment, contemplating. Ivarr was a bold young Drengr. He was slightly older than Eivor, but not so much so that it would be a cause for scandal. He would have the right to make her stop fighting and start producing heirs, yes, but he couldn’t see such a blood-hungry man asking Eivor to be a homemaker. They might even be good for each other. Perhaps they would even write much greater sagas together than apart. It was a heavy gamble, but Styrbjorn could see far more benefits to this arrangement than losses. 

Reaching into his tunic pocket, Styrbjorn pulled out a fine arm ring, encrusted with many fine, glittering jewels and set in shining silver. “I agree to your terms, Ubba. I look forward to joining our clans through the bond of marriage.”

______________________________________________________________________

Sigurd had always been a boastful talker, but he had never been able to hold his mead quite as well as Eivor had. After one round of just four horns of mead, Eivor had both bested him and drunkened him enough to slip away, quiet and unseen. She did not feel too poorly about it, though. She had left him in the hands of a very matronly barmaid.

Eivor sent Synin to the skies to help her search for her target. She had always had a special bond with her greatest of friends. They had worked together as a team for so long that it was almost as if she could see through the raven’s own eyes. Watching Synin closely, she could tell when the target was spotted. 

“Thank you, old friend,” Eivor murmured to the bird as she pulled her cloak higher to mask her identity. She had left her cloak, which was easily spotted due to the Raven Clan insignia embroidered upon it, with Sigurd and had “borrowed” this one from one of Ubba’s very drunk men.   
Keeping to the shadows, Eivor made her way toward her target. When she found him, Ivarr was sat atop the roof of an abandoned Christian church at the far border of the settlement.

Quiet as a field mouse, Eivor began climbing the footholds created by the wreckage of the building. Reaching the top, she approached cautiously behind Ivarr. In hindsight, cautious as she was, she really should have known better than to approach such a high-strung Drengr from behind. 

Ivarr hoped that the axe whirring past her head was enough to send his unwelcome guest away. However, she remained stoic and still. That was odd. She was not frightened. “What do you want?” he growled.

“You are a difficult man to find, Ivarr Ragnarsson,” Eivor commented in lieu of an answer, pulling her hood down to get a better look at him. 

Ivarr had been expecting Ubba to send one of his many men to gather him - and die trying - and bring him back to the longhouse. What he had not expected was for his elder brother to send the Drengr woman from the Raven Clan after him. He was very good at preventing alliances, after all. 

“Why did Ubba send you?” he questioned her. 

“He didn’t,” she answered simply, taking a seat beside him. “I tired of my own brother and thought we might-”

“Thought we might what, Raven-girl?” Ivarr sneered. “Become close friends over our bacraut older brothers?”

“It’s Wolf-Kissed, actually. Not Raven-Girl,” she smarted back to him. In a show of friendship that the man before her simply did not deserve, she pulled the edge of her cloak to the side, displaying the gruesome scar that told the story of her childhood encounter with the wolf. “They call me Eivor Wolf-Kissed.”

“I care not what the people call you, only what saga you have to tell.”

Eivor nodded, understanding. She launched into the story of how she got her scar, leaving out the circumstances of Varin’s death. She did not need this man judging her for her birth father. She wove a tale to Ivarr of how she killed her first man wholly by accident, having barely lifted the sword through the window when the man fell into it. She told him of how Sigurd had rescued her by pulling her onto the horse, but it had fallen into the ice, launching her out over the cracking surface and her axe even farther.

She told him of the wolf, the hunger in its eyes, how she knew that it meant to kill her even before it had reached her. She found herself sparing no details, something she hadn’t done in many years. Synin, as always, came to her shoulder to join her during her favorite part. It was the part where she had saved Eivor’s life, of course. She always squawked proudly when that detail came. And then, Eivor told Ivarr of how she reached the axe during Synin’s distraction to embed it into the wolf’s neck at the very last second. 

In the end, Ivarr laughed. It wasn't the reaction she usually got. “I was right. They should have called you Eivor Raven-Girl.” 

With that, Ivarr got up and jumped down from the edge of the building. Eivor watched him go in silence. He really was a bacraut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for commenting and Kudos! This is the first fic I've ever been brave enough to publish, so it means a lot! Be sure to let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. The Price of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cat's out of the bag.

Chapter 4: The Price of Friendship  
The next morning, Eivor stumbled up the path to the great hall with Sigurd in search of their father. The sun was higher in the sky than Eivor would have liked before setting sail for home, but the late start would be worth it if Styrbjorn had managed to secure even a tentative alliance with the Ragnarssons. 

Eivor’s thoughts were interrupted as her brother stumbled to the side and started heaving. She laughed heartily at her brother’s expense. 

“Perhaps you should learn better than to drink against me, brother,” she chuckled, patting Sigurd on the back before leaving him to his misery. She continued the trek up to the longhouse by herself, silently cursing Sól for the brightness of his chariot. 

To Eivor’s great annoyance, she was intercepted as she passed the barracks by none other than Dag. Dag was one of Sigurd’s oldest friends and was a great fighter to have on their crew, but he was a big brute with an even bigger mouth. Eivor felt the ache behind her eyes throb as he approached. From the smug look on his face, whatever he had to say was not going to be pleasant. 

“Wolf-Kissed!” Dag greeted, far to pleased with himself about something. “I have heard the happy news from the Ragnarssons’ men,” he laughed. “The mighty Drengr Eivor Wolf-Kissed, confined to hearth and home! It will be good to command the longship with Sigurd once again.”

Eivor just looked at dag as if he had turned blue like a Jotunn. “As you can see, I am confined nowhere. Have you been stealing Valka’s henbane again, Dag? Or must you join Sigurd in his drink-sick?”

Before Dag could offer any more nonsense, she turned on her heel and continued her way into the longhouse. When she arrived, she found Styrbjorn Jarl and Ubba breaking their fast with an array of breads, smoked meats, and soft cheeses. This, at least, was a good sign that the friendship between the two clans had made progress. Ivarr was also blessedly absent.

“Good morning, Father, Ubba,” she greeted, sitting beside Styrbjron and helping herself to the spread. 

“Good morning, Eivor,” Styrbjorn greeted warmly, “Where is your brother?”

Eivor grinned. “He is making sick in the bushes outside the merchant’s storefront. Do not worry, though. Dag should be playing nursemaid right about now.”

“I’m pleased that the two of you enjoyed my mead hall, Eivor,” Ubba laughed, but their jovial mood did not last. 

There was a thick silence that began to permeate the air. Eivor began to feel uneasy as Styrbjorn began fidgeting with his water goblet and Ubba no longer met her eyes. Styrbjorn opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish flopping on the docks. He, too, did not meet her eyes. 

“Out with it, father!” Eivor snapped. There was something that the two Jarls weren’t telling her, and she was not going to tolerate it.

Styrbjorn nodded, taking a breath to steal himself against whatever reaction his words would gain. How odd, she thought, and unlike her father. 

“We have secured an alliance, Eivor. Ubba and I traded arm bands last night. In our friendship, we have both received great gains. For the Raven Clan, we have secured men, resources, and territory. And for the Ragnarssons…” he trailed off, looking to Ubba. 

“How very generous of you, Ubba. Well? What have we given them in return?” 

Silence. 

“Was it your bollocks, father? Or your tongue?” Eivor snapped. The caginess was absolutely absurd. It’s not like he’d sold her as a thrall. 

“No, Eivor,” Styrbjorn shook his head, eyes drifting to the axe at her waist as he calculated his next words. “There is not necessarily a price, as our clans are to be united.”

What was the problem with the men of her clan this morning? First Sigurd was too drink sick to function, then Dag spoke nonsense, and now her father was speaking in riddles. 

“Has Ivarr poisoned our drink? None of our men have spoken sense all morning, including yourself, father,” Eivor groused. “All alliances come at a price. You taught me that. Speak plainly or not at all. I think I’d prefer Sigurd’s retching to your riddles.”

Styrbjorn huffed. “Fine, Eivor. Ubba and I have agreed to unite our clans through a marriage bond.”

Eivor blinked. And then blinked again. At first, she thought he meant between himself and Ubba, which, while not unheard of, was more than a little far-fetched. Then, Dag’s words clicked. _Confined to hearth and home._

The bottom fell out from Eivor’s stomach. She had known that one day, like Sigurd, she would have to do her duty to her clan and marry someone of her father’s choosing. It was the way things were commonly done. But they had just gotten to England, to Ravensthorpe, and now…

“I see,” Eivor murmured. Then she took a breath and looked up at Ubba. “If this is what is best for my clan, so be it. I could do worse than a Ragnarsson. However, you will not force me to give up my life as a Drengr, Ubba. You will have to come to Ravensthorpe. It borders Ledecesterschire. You will rule from there.”

Ubba smiled gently at Eivor. “I do so admire your courage, Eivor, but I am not to be your husband. Styrbjorn Jarl and I have agreed that Ivarr would be the better match.” 

Ivarr. 

_This is why I have brought you here. You feel it. It is only a matter of time. He will either change you or destroy you. But that is up to you._

A crash. A roar. An axe landed in the back of Ubba’s chair, a mere breadth away from taking his ear. And just like that, all hell broke loose. 

______________________________________________________________________

Sigurd and Dag finally made their way up to the longhouse. Sigurd was feeling much better than he had when he’d awoken thanks to his shield brother's help Dag was a bloodthirsty glory-monger, but he was also his dearest friend outside of his bond with Eivor. He knew Dag’s jealousy toward Eivor ran deep, but when push finally came to shove, he would insist that they get over their differences. 

Approaching the longhouse, the first thing Sigurd noticed was the noise. There were shouts and cheering followed by the occasional thud of flesh on flesh. Sigurd ran in to see what the commotion was about. Pushing his way through the tight circle of both Ragnarsson and Raven clan warriors, he found the Ragnarssons in the middle of a brutal fist fight. 

At the head of the circle stood Eivor and their father. His sister had an exasperated look on her face and she alternated between evaluating the fighters and glaring at their father. Scooting along the edge of the circle to miss any wayward fists, Sigurd made his way over to them. 

“What happened?” Sigurd inquired. 

Eivor watched the fighters for a moment before speaking blandly. “Father sold my hand to Ubba, who thrusted it upon Ivarr. I take it that I am not his desired bride.”

“You could do worse, sister,” Sigurd commented, unsurprised. It was common practice. Hel, in another world in which Varin had not died, he and Eivor might have even been matched. He was happier with her as his sister, though. Ivarr would have his hands full. Then again, from the fight between the two Ragnarssons, Eivor’s would be just as busy. 

Eivor had to admit to herself, unfortunately, that she was rather impressed with Ivarr’s skill in combat. She had heard many rumors as to how he had earned the name boneless, everything from his fluid fighting style to missing legs (which was absurd) to impotency. By watching him, she was willing to bet on the former. He was unpredictable with movements like water and fists like ice.

However, she was growing more tired of Ivarr’s antics by the second. And his wound was open again, bleeding everywhere. It would not do for him to die of infection before the marriage, no matter how tempting that solution seemed at the moment. Her people needed this alliance. 

A glint of metal caught her eye and she placed herself bodily between the brothers. “Enough!” Eivor shouted. “Out!” she snapped at the onlookers. “All of you! Out! That includes you, Dag! Anyone who is left here when I count to three will go home missing their stones.”

They were all gone within seconds. 

When the hall was quiet and everyone but her family and the Ragnarssons had vacated the building, she first turned her stony glare on Ubba. “If this alliance is to work, then I expect better of you, Ubba. Do not think that I did not see your knife,” the last sentence was whispered just for Ubba’s ears. “You should have told him sooner.”

“And you,” Eivor seethed, turning to Ivarr. She approached him confidently, but turned to face the others once more before speaking to him. “The rest of you. OUT!”

Eivor turned back to face Ivarr, who was still panting from the fight and bleeding from the raw wound on his face. “You will sit in that chair and you will allow me to clean your woundI will not show others your weakness, but we will do our duty to our families. You don’t have to like it. I don’t have to like it. But it will be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned a few times in this chapter, arranged marriage was the most common way for vikings to marry. This won't be your typical "BuT I dOnT lOvE hIm" trope. That's just not who Eivor is. But I hope you all enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think!


	5. I Can Take It, Wolf-Kissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr and Eivor finally have meaningful conversation.

Chapter 5: I Can Take It, Wolf-Kissed

“Come,” Ivarr demanded, leading Eivor to his quarters as soon as the others had vacated the longhouse. He’d never taken a woman into his quarters, with or without the intention to wet his plowsword, but he did not have the energy to dwell on the fact. She was going to be his fucking wife soon, anyway, so what did it matter. 

Wife. Ivarr huffed a little at the thought. He could already tell that Eivor would not step back and be a passive homemaker, baking bread and whelping many children. Then again, the sort of woman who would prefer the life of a homemaker would not be the sort of woman that would survive his presence long. 

Ivarr knew himself well enough. He knew that he was bloodthirsty, battle hungry, and glory chasing. He knew that anyone he brought into his life needed to be able to take care of themselves because those attributes left him with no shortage of equally powerful enemies. 

Ivarr couldn’t deny that Ubba had chosen decently for him. Eivor was a Drengr. He’d not seen her fight, but he could tell that she possessed a formidable strength from the way she spoke and carried herself. The woman had a sharp axe and a sharper tongue. He only hoped that she could keep up with him when the axes started flying. 

“Ivar?” He was broken from his thoughts by the sound of Eivor’s voice. He realized with a start that they were already in his quarters and he had likely been just standing there for too long. 

Ivarr promptly sat on his bed and gestured to the chest of drawers against the wall with his water basin on top. 

“If you insist on cleaning this gods damned wound, there are supplies in the top drawer there,” he muttered. 

At Ivarr’s direction, Eivor gathered the clean rags, salves, and bandages she would need to do this task properly. The healer had done a decent job with the stitching, but she could tell that Ivarr’s impatience had interfered before she had finished. She also filled the basin with cool, fresh water and soaked a rag to help her clean the wound. 

Eivor sat beside Ivarr gently and lifted the rag toward his face. “I will be as gentle as I can, but you have done a great deal of damage beyond the initial wound,” she warned. 

“I can take it, Wolf-Kissed,” he insisted. 

With a nod, Eivor set to work debriding the dried blood from the area around the wound. As read and swollen as the edges of the wound were, she knew it had to have caused Ivarr great pain, but he didn’t once cry out or whimper. 

“Tell me how you earned this mark?” she asked Ivarr as soon as she was able to move away from the part of the wound closest to his mouth. It would be a long process, and she hoped that the story might distract him a little from the pain. 

“I tried to kill a king,” Ivarr answered. At Eivor’s shocked expression, he continued on with his tale. 

“I tried to kill King Rhodri of the Britons,” he explained. “He’s a pig headed bastard who deserves to rot with his head on a pike for all to see. Ubba thinks we should be ‘diplomatic,’’ he mocked, “but I would rather crush his fat fucking skull with my axe than make friends with him.”

“If Ubba intended diplomacy, how did his blade end up kissing your face?” Eivor asked, if only to keep the conversation going. It was the longest and most civil conversation they’d had yet.

“Ubba may like to think himself the boss of me just because he is elder and father told him to ‘look after me,’ but I do what I believe is necessary. Killing Rhodri is necessary. My brother is just going soft.

“I sent half a dozen raiders into Rhodri’s war camp to distract the guards while I snuck in from the south to kill the king. It would have worked, too, if the men I’d taken weren’t such useless cowards. They realized that they were outnumbered and deserted. Two of the guards grabbed me and Rhodri gave me this as a gift.” He gestured to his face. 

“It is okay, though,” Ivarr grinned. “My face will be that more memorable when I send him to meet his lonely god.”

Eivor couldn’t help but laugh a little and shake as she switched the damp cloth for a healing poultice. Such a harebrained scheme seemed to be fitting for Ivarr. “And what did you do to the cowards?”

“What do you think happened?” Ivar crowed. “They are where all cowards deserve to be. I sent them to Hel.”

Eivor grinned and nodded. “Good,” she said simply. 

“You won’t be able to see out of your left eye for a few days,” Eivor warned, putting down the salve and beginning with wrapping the bandages, “but you must keep this covered and clean for at least a week. It will scar as it is, but this just might kill you if the fever sets in. You deserve a warrior's death, Ivarr, one that will not come to pass for a long time yet. I will not have you dying of this scratch needlessly.”

Looking over her work, Eivor noticed that Ivarr’s expression was surprisingly gentle when he only had one eye showing, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. 

______________________________________________________________________

On the way home, Eivor insisted that her crew raid one of the monasteries that Ubba had granted the Raven Clan rights to. It was, afterall, her hand that had won them the territory, so she might as well be allowed to conquer them. 

As she had expected, the battle with the Saxon guards of the monastery had done her some good. In the end, she was battle drunk and covered in blood as her Ravens finished off the last few guards. 

Eivor enlisted the help of Birna to open the heavy chests to gather the spoils of their battle. Dag was likely going to be offended and mouthy over not being chosen to do the job, but she wasn’t willing to put up with his remarks over her marriage at the moment. Birna was a good companion, however, and hadn’t tried to pry into her personal life yet despite being an increasingly close friend. 

Eivor amused herself by goading Dag into doing all of the heavy lifting for her as they loaded the building materials onto the longship. She had told him that if he were as strong as he claimed, he would have no trouble taking three men’s share of the load himself. Perhaps it was a little cruel to play with him like that, but she couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. 

For just a moment, Eivor could pretend that she did not have a duty to her clan beyond gathering supplies and annoying Dag.

______________________________________________________________________

When they finally docked the ship at home, Eivor instructed Dag to ensure that the spoils of their war made it to the site that would become the merchant Yanli’s storefront before heading toward the longhouse to speak with Randvi. The other woman was as close as a sister to her, and she would need her in the days to come. 

“Randvi!” Eivor greeted her sister warmly from across the alliance map. Sigurd and Styrbjorn Jarl’s longship had beaten hers home, and from the immediate look of worry on Randvi’s face, she could tell that someone had already given her the report. 

“Eivor,” Randvi echoed. “How are you doing?”

A weight of some emotion that Eivor could not place hit her like a ton of bricks. Throughout this entire experience, it was the first time someone had actually asked her how she felt about all that had occurred. 

“I am not sure,” Eivor answered honestly. She could be candid with Randvi. She would not judge. How could she? She had been through the same situation with Sigurd. 

“I understand,” Randvi said, pulling Eivor into a comforting embrace. “I was not always the stoic woman you see reading maps, Eivor. I was once a wildling in the forest, if you can believe it. However, I doubt your marriage will change you as it has me, Eivor, for you are a much stronger woman than I will ever be. And from what I hear, this Ragnarsson is far different in his expectations than Sigurd.” 

Eivor nodded. “I hope you are right, Randvi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already. I don't know how long I can keep popping them out at this rate, but I'm happy to live in their world for now. I hope you all enjoyed getting a little more interaction between Ivarr and Eivor. I hope to get into the actual wedding and some of the more plotty stuff in the next couple of chapters.
> 
> As always, thank you all for you comments and kudos. Your support keeps me inspired. And don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!


	6. Bossy, but Effective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dag's an asshole. Eivor puts him in the place, has some shower thoughts, and sees Ivarr again.

Chapter 6: Bossy, but Effective

For the next moon cycle, Eivor did her best to do as much good for her clan as possible. While Sigurd spent most of his time gathering intelligence for Styrbjorn, Eivor led their men to glory. She did her best to lead as many raids and win as many battles as possible in the short time before Ivarr would arrive. 

In the short weeks that separated her from her time in Repton, Eivor pushed her crew up and down the English coastline, searching for whatever Saxon monasteries and bandit encampments they could come across. While the constant raids kept her mind and sword arm busy, keeping her from dwelling too often on what the future might hold, it was also becoming taxing on both her crew and herself. 

After three weeks of voyaging to and fro with no real end or goal in sight, the longship had quickly become tight quarters. The crew had gone from joyously singing and telling tales as they rowed to whispering and grunting amongst themselves. Even dear Bragi didn’t have it in him to keep hashing the same stories day in and day out. They ate on the ship. They slept on the ship. They rowed on the ship. The only real time that they stretched their land legs was when Eivor would spot another raiding spot or when she would dock them briefly to go hunt some game to feed her crew. Something had to change soon.

Eivor let a sense of quiet and calm take her as she crouched in the bushes. Her bow hung loosely in her hands, its arrow nocked and ready for the first sign of prey. She had seen many deer tracks coming and going from the stream some yards away and knew that one would come ambling up for a drink soon in the midday heat. 

Eivor held her breath and slowly started pulling back on the bowstring as she heard the sharp crack of a twig snapping not far from her hiding place. She listened closely for the four beat gait of a stag, but did not hear what she had anticipated. No. These were human steps. 

When the breeze picked up slightly to mask her movements, Eivor gently shifted in the bush to peak out at the person walking into the clearing. She breathed a sigh of relief and stood from her position, bow now disarmed, when she saw that it was one of her crew members, likely searching for her. 

“Birna!” Eivor called. “You have frightened away all of the game for miles with your stomping. Why have you come?”

Birna jogged the rest of the way to Eivor’s location, a worried expression on her face. 

“Eivor!” she exclaimed, panting a little. “Please. You must come quickly. It’s Dag. He- Oh, just come on!” And with that, Birna took off back in the direction of their ship. 

Eivor gave a long-suffering sigh and followed her back through the woods until they reached the beach.

When Eivor was close enough to catch sight of what was going on, she nearly couldn’t believe her eyes. Dag was standing on her ship, her crew below him on the beach in a half-moon shape, eyes on him. A few fists rose into the air every so often, agreeing with whatever nonsense he was spewing with a shout. The others were watching him more warily, looking around wildly. These loyal men seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as one of them spotted Birna and Eivor making their way forward. 

Dag was to absorbed in himself to notice. 

“-and we will take this long ship and all its goods and return them to Ravensthorpe. And when we return, it will be us that are praised! Not that rabid little she-wolf! We will not be the subjects of-”

“Of what, Dag?” Eivor shouted, near shaking with fury. She pushed her way through the throng of warriors and climbed up onto the longship, hand on her axe. “What is the meaning of this mutiny?”

“So the housewife returns to nag us some more!” Dag mocked openly, looking toward the crew, expecting cheers for his efforts. He received none. Those who had been with him until she had arrived look away in discomfort. Cowards. The rest pulled in close together, watching the proceedings with wary eyes. 

“If you have such an issue with my leadership, you should say it to my face like a man, Dag,” Eivor growled.

“Oh, how dare you lecture me on manhood, Eivor, when we all know you will be nothing more than a bedwarmer for that Ragnarsson in the next moon cycle.”

Eivor couldn’t help it. She really couldn’t. She prided herself on being a levelheaded and kind leader. She had never assaulted any of her Drengr, aside from necessary and consensual sparring for training purposes, but that would change today. For the next thing that Dag saw was Eivor’s fist as it met his eye. 

“You weak, measly little mealworm!” Eivor shouted, ducking as Dag tried to return her blow and meeting him with her left hook and an uppercut to the jaw that knocked him on his ass. “You are a snake in the grass Dag. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t leave you here to rot while the rest of us take our spoils back to Ravensthorpe.”

“You do not deny it, Wolf-Kissed. Does your husband to be even know you are out here, damaging his goods? If Sigurd were here-” 

“So that’s what this is about, Dag,” Eivor seethed. “If you aren’t careful, I might begin to mistake your wish for greater power for a wish to be my brother’s plowfield. That doesn’t give you the right to insult me. I am no less a Vikingr because I am to be married, which I am entering into so that all of you can have a better life, not because it is what I want.”

Stepping away from Dag, Eivor turned to face her warriors. She had thought them all to be the most loyal of men and women. While that was true for several, there were a few who she had witnessed agreeing with Dag. 

“Let it be known that it is true,” Eivor began, addressing the crew. “I am to be married to Ivarr, son of Ragnar Lothbrok. I am the daughter of Styrbjorn Jarl in all but blood, second in line to his throne. I have agreed to marry for the sake of our clan, to unite our clan with the Ragnarssons’ clan. No different than Sigurd’s marriage to Randvi. And if anyone has any problems with my leadership, challenge me to a holmgang now or shut your mouths and get on this ship.”

There was a long moment of shocked silence. It was not often that Eivor scolded her crew, but she was tired of them acting like little children over this match when they should be grateful for her sacrifice. And she was tired of Dag’s fat fucking mouth.

It was Sunniva who made the first move, striding up to the longship and taking a skin full of mead. Holding her fist into the air, she shouted “To Eivor! Skal!” before taking a long drink. 

One by one, the rest of the crew joined in, cheering to their leader. 

With a bandage tied onto this mess, Eivor loaded her crew back into the longship and set sail back home for Ravensthorpe. Dag silently sulked at the bow, farthest away from Eivor, but the black fog that had seemed to surround her warriors had disappeared. The way back home was filled with song and story, as it should be. 

______________________________________________________________________

Some days after Eivor’s return home, she climbed the cliff behind Valka’s house after a long morning helping to raise the building for Petra and Wallace home. Her journeys over the last moon had gained enough supplies to build the butchers’ home along with a woodshop to help build fencing to protect their town from counterraids. 

However, after the long, hot English morning, Eivor was desperate to wash the dirt and grime from her body. Following the creek that supplied the waterfall to Valka’s pond upstream, she found a duo of smaller waterfalls. The upper one was surrounded by walls of rock, offering her some sense of privacy as she laid her armor and weapons in a neat pile to the side. She kept an axe within a moment’s reach in case a wayward predator found her, but she allowed herself to relax in this place.

Eivor was close enough to the settlement to see just past the roof of the longhouse if she squinted hard enough through the trees, but far enough that she did not worry that a Drengr would find her in this place. After she unraveled the braids and plaits that kept her long blonde hair from her eyes, she reached into the pouch she carried at her waist and pulled out a bar of soap. 

Inhaling the scent of the soap, Eivor smiled slightly. It was a fine bar, scented with oils from herbs and spices from the far east and made soft with goat’s milk and honey, and it had been a gift from Randvi the previous Jól. Eivor though on all that had happened in the last few weeks. 

Ivarr would be arriving on their shores in the next few days. Randvi had taken over most of the wedding preparations, but Ivarr still needed time to settle into their community beforehand. The wedding would take place in the next moon cycle. The next full moon would fall in three Frigg’s Days, and they would be wed on that day. According to Valka, it was a sign from the gods that their marriage would be “long, happy, and powerful.” Eivor wasn’t so sure about the former descriptions, but who was she to go against the word of the gods?

More concerning was Dag. Since that day on the shores near Buckingham, he hadn’t spoken a word to her. She had, occasionally, caught him watching her with some amount of contempt, especially a few days prior as she was helping start the training of a few of the settlement’s children. Knud, especially, was adamant that he start his training early. 

Dag should’ve counted himself lucky to still be breathing. He was also very fortunate that she had not chosen to bring him straight to Styrbjorn for retribution. However, she felt that she could handle the likes of Dag. Perhaps she should have. 

With a sigh, Eivor shook the worst of the water from her skin and redressed herself in her armor. She left her hair down and slightly damp as she made her way down to the longhouse. She’d braid it back in the morning, but she really should be getting back. 

Eivor was shocked to walk into the bustling longhouse. The scent of fresh bread and bubbling stew permeated the building, a good indicator of a feast to come. She sighed, hoping that it was for Sigurd’s return and not for any other reason, but she knew better. Her husband-to-be had arrived. 

Eivor found Ivarr standing beside Ubba and Styrbjorn. He was wearing fine armor in the colors of his clan. It was far brighter and less worn than his usual broken-in leather and Eivor guessed that Ubba had forced Ivarr into it for the occasion. She wondered what the elder Ragnarsson had bargained for that. 

“Your wound has healed well,” Eivor commented in greeting. It was the truth, thank the gods. It had gone from angry, puffy red and bleeding to a thin pink pucker that snaked across his face. 

“I had a decent healer. Bossy, but effective,” Ivarr quipped, looking her up and down. “You, however, look like a drowned cat and smell like an apothecary.”

“It’s called soap, Ivarr. You should try it sometime.” 

With a pat on his shoulder, Eivor made her way to the mead bucket to fill her horn. She’d be needing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter today, but it's a little longer than usual. I hope nobody actually likes Dag, cause man is he an ass. As always, thank you for your wonderful comments and keep letting me know what you think! :)


	7. Wedding Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr and Eivor have another moment. Randvi is overbearingly nice. Eivor doesn't know how to accept gifts.

Chapter 7: Wedding Preparations

The mead hall was loud with music and merrymaking. Styrbjorn had put together a truly impressive feast. He and Ubba had stayed at the head of the table, telling stories of battles past, discussing possible battles future, and overlooking the mixing between their two clans at present. 

Several hours into the celebration of Ivarr’s welcome in Ravensthorpe, Eivor had done a remarkable job, in her own opinion, of avoiding Styrbjorn and Ivarr. She’d mostly kept to the mead bucket until the room was spinning delightfully.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to feast. She loved feasting with her warriors, drinking until the sun began its chase across the sky. She was uncomfortable tonight, though. She felt as if all eyes would be upon her and her soon-to-be if she so much as glanced in Ivarr’s direction. 

To marry a Ragnarsson was a match to be proud of, but Eivor found that she couldn’t put Dag’s mockery from her head. Would her shield brothers truly think her weak for agreeing to marry? Perhaps soaking her mind in more mead would be the cure to her racing thoughts. 

A hand found its way to the small of Eivor’s back with gentle pressure. Her first reaction was to whirl around and liberate the hand from its owner, but she found that her reflexes had slowed and her bones were heavy with mead. She relaxed a little when she realized who was there.

“Perhaps we should take a walk,” Ivarr suggested, bending his head low to whisper it in her ear. The pressure at Eivor’s spine guided her gently outside. The cool Saxon breeze met her clammy skin, and that was surely the reason that shivers were racing down her spine. 

“Where are you taking me?” Eivor slurred, stumbling a little as they made their way up the path to the waterfall that overlooked the settlement. “Do you mean to kill me? So that you won’t have to marry me?” she continued. The drink had definitely loosened her lips. 

Ivarr barked a quiet laugh. “It’d be easy to do that in the state you’re in. But no,” he answered, “I’m not going to kill you. Valhalla isn’t yet ready for the likes of you and me.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eivor questioned, plopping herself rather gracelessly onto a log that served as a bench near the cliff. The cool, fresh air was starting to bring some of her wits back to her, but her balance wasn’t nearly there yet. 

Ivarr sat beside her with his elbows resting on his knees. He was far more graceful than her in that moment. “I have heard interesting things from Saxon mouths as of late,” he said, as if that had been an answer to her question. 

“And what have these Saxons’ mouths been saying?” she inquired. 

Ivarr gave her a slightly manic grin. The scar on his face pulled one corner up slightly higher than the other, but Eivor found that it was a good look on him. Must have been the drink. 

“They say that a mad berserker woman has been tearing through their countryside with her warriors, pillaging all that England has to offer” he answered. “They say that she is a witch, come to defile all good Christian monasteries for her Pagan gods. Curiously, they also say she has been kissed by wolves.” 

“Lies,” Eivor smirked. “For I have been all along the English coast since we last spoke, and I have yet to meet this berserking witch.” 

Just as Ivarr was about to answer her quip with one of his own, a low growl filled the air, causing gooseflesh to rise on the back of Eivor’s neck. Eivor’s entire body became rigid and her eyes went wide as she searched the inky blackness. The growl was all too familiar, and visions of that day on the ice flashed behind her eyes. 

“Wolves,” Ivarr whispered, hand on his axe. 

He too was trying to pinpoint the mutts’ exact locations when a huge black beast sprang upon him from within the dark. One arm went up to brace against the wolf’s neck as the other attempted to extract the axe from its leather strap at his hip. 

As soon as it had happened, however, the weight was gone from Ivarr’s shoulders. Eivor had grabbed the beast by the back of its neck and thrown it on its back with a battle cry to rival a Valkyrie’s song. Sitting up and pulling his axe out completely, Ivarr witnessed Eivor hacking and slashing at the beast’s neck until her face was covered and dripping with hot rivulets of blood and the animal had long stopped twitching. 

A flash of white in the corner of his vision broke him from the vision and his axe was sunk into the neck of the wolf’s mate before it, too, could pin him to the ground. He waited a moment after it died, trying to determine if there were any more, but he approached Eivor’s stock still form when he decided that the threat was gone. 

“Forget what those Saxon’s mentioned of the Berserker. They clearly did not understand that what was before them was a Valkyrie."

Eivor did not know how to respond to the comment (compliment?), so she stood and began walking toward the stream. She had just bathed, too, damn it. A light splashing of her hands and face would have to suffice for now. Styrbjorn would be livid to know that they had left the feast in the first place. Whether they came back drenched in blood or not made little difference. 

______________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Randvi woke Eivor far too early for her liking and pulled her bodily into her and Sigurd’s bedchamber. Had Eivor had more wits about her, she might have protested, but alas she did not. She really needed to stop drowning herself in Tekla’s brew every time Ivarr was so much as mentioned. 

“What is the meaning of this, Randvi?” Eivor groused. She wanted nothing more than to go back to her own quarters and bury herself in her furs until Ragnarok. Randvi was up to something and Evior wasn’t sure she was going to like it. 

“I have a gift for you, Eivor. It would be nice if you would at least pretend to be grateful,” Randvi retorted, pulling open a trunk beside her bed. 

From within the trunk, Randvi obtained a long length of fine cream-colored linen. Eivor supposed that the fabric was fine enough, but she didn’t truly understand until Randvi began to unravel it. 

“This is the dress you wore on your wedding day,” Eivor stated dumbly.

Randvi nodded. “Yes, well it was. I have made a few modifications to it,” she said, pointing to the silken embroidery. Where there had once been a fox over the right breast to symbolize Randvi’s home clan, there was now a proud raven, and where Sigurd’s raven had once lain over the heart was the symbol of a vikingr helmet and two crossed axes. 

“You mean for me to wear this when I am married?” Eivor asked incredulously. “Not to offend, but would it even fit me? I have not worn a gown in many years, Randvi, and I am not as … womanly-shaped as most.” 

Randvi laughed a little. “I’ve made some adjustments for your muscles, my friend. They are also quite, how did you put it, womanly. But I will not know its final fit until you put it on.”

Eivor stared at the garment mutely. It was irrational to fear putting on a simple garment, but her mind was not living in the realm of logic. She was Eivor Wolf-Kissed of the Raven Clan, a fierce, battle hardened Drengr. This was nothing more than a simple gown. Though it made her feel ridiculous, Eivor was stuck where she stood. If she did not put the dress on, she was a coward. Obviously. If she did put it on- Well, there would be no going back or pretending as if this weren’t happening. Not that she’d had much of a choice in the matter. 

Closing her eyes, Eivor called on all of her courage. She could not lose her honor over something as trivial as a dress. But oh, how she was tempted. 

For the next hour, Randvi accosted Eivor with pointy pins and needles with thread that pulled and tucked the gown until it was a shape that Randvi deemed appropriate. At the end of it all, Randvi shoved her in front of the large mirror that Sigurd had acquired for her from a far-east merchant as a bridal gift. 

Looking at herself, Eivor’s first thought was that she looked softer, her shape more feminine than she was used to seeing it. She had often tried to use the shape of her armor and padding underneath to seem bigger, more threatening than her body was. But, she had to admit, she looked … beautiful. 

It took Eivor a long moment to think back to the last time she had felt that way, but the memory eventually came. 

_Eivor had been only seven or eight winters old. Even then, Dag had been a bully. He was older than her, bigger than her, and already jealous of her relationship with Sigurd. He had thrown insults at her, mocking her boyish figure and close-shaved hair until she had run home to her mother Rosta._

_She had asked her mother why she looked so much like her father than her mother. It took many minutes of gentle prodding for Rosta to realize why Eivor was concerned with her appearance. Instead of mocking her for being weak as Dag or Sigurd might have, Rosta had led her out into a field of summer flowers. She had braided a flower crown for Eivor as she had told her a story about an ugly little duck that grew up into a beautiful swan._

“Thank you for this gift, Randvi,” Eivor croaked. “I shall wear it with pride and fondness.”

______________________________________________________________________

Over the next few days, many people from their little settlement brought wedding gifts up to the longhouse. To Eivor, they were sweet, but made her feel terrible. She should have been out gathering supplies for her people, not freely accepting goods made of what little supplies they had. 

Tekla had brought up several large barrels, a moon cycle’s supply of honeyed mead.

Gunnar had brought her her father’s axe, of all things. Randvi, the sly fox, had pilfered it from her bedroom and given it to Gunnar to improve with a hard nickel plating and gleaming tungsten engravings. It would make a fine, if a little nontraditional, blade exchange. 

Tarben had baked many loaves of hearty bread. 

Gudrun and Gudmund had brought a new sail for her longship. The design they had chosen was the same symbol for the Ragnarsson that Randvi had sewn over the heart of her dress with the circling ravens of her own clan in the negative spaces on the helmet. 

Sigurd had left a bracer with a hidden blade on the table beside her bed. She almost didn’t even want to know where he’d procured such an item. 

Rowan had gifted a fine colt so that Ivarr would have a mount in their stable. 

Svend and Torve had placed a bag full of fine silver beads and hoops for her hair, presumably for the wedding day. 

Even Styrbjorn, the old goat, had gifted her with a beautiful armband to present Ivarr during their ceremony. 

Somehow, though the gifts came from many within the settlement, each one had ‘Randvi’ written all over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next chapter will finally get to the wedding. As always, your comments and support are what keep me going.
> 
> On a side note: I graduated from college a few weeks ago with a teaching degree. I just found out today that I will be starting my first teaching job on Monday! After that, updates may slow down a little, but I fully intend to continue writing this. <3


	8. Frigg's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last minute prep. Ceremony time. Eivor is kind of my feminist icon.

Chapter 8: Frigg’s Day  
The evening before the wedding, Eivor had hardly been able to sleep. She had tossed and turned in her bed all night, belly tight with anticipation for the day to come. What little sleep she did get was in short bursts that were plagued with visions. 

_Ivarr was on top of her, inside of her. He was everywhere, overwhelming all of her senses until nothing remained in the world that was not Ivarr, that was not this moment in time. As the knot in her belly pulled tighter and tighter, Ivarr’s face above her changed. It went from bliss and pleasure to screwed in pain. And then she noticed that his face was covered in blood, some old and drying, some new and wet. He looked battered._

_The scent of iron filled the room, threatening to make her sick. She pushed Ivarr off of her and looked over his nude body, trying to find the source of the blood. When she found it, she gasped. The blade that Sigurd had gifted her for her wedding was deep in his back, piercing his kidney. Wait, no. This was not her new blade. It was the wrong color. And the embellishment was not the same. Where hers was embossed with an eye in a compass, this one had an ornate Christian cross._

_Eivor cried out, following the thick arm that stuck out from the bracer to the thicker shoulders that supported it. She tried to look at the man’s face, but it was hooded in a red cloak. The murderer disintegrated to smoke before her eyes and she turned her attention to Ivarr. She had this sinking feeling in her stomach that if she had just seen the signs sooner, she might have saved him._

_“The valkyries,” he croaked, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. “I hear them approach.”_

______________________________________________________________________

Eivor woke with a start in a cold sweat about an hour before the sun rose. She sighed. She knew she would not get any more sleep, so she might as well start preparing herself for the day. She gathered her things and made her way quietly from the longhouse to the bathhouse. 

Valka had insisted that they prioritize building the bathhouse for the occasion of her marriage. She was determined that Eivor would, at the very least, participate in ritual cleansing, lest they anger the gods. Randvi had wholeheartedly agreed. 

For what it was worth, the bathhouse was the building with the most volunteer builders so far, and it had gone up in record time. Many were desperate for a hot bath, it seemed. Ocatavian, a little Saxon man, had even decorated it with his collection of Roman artifacts and statues and agreed to run the bathhouse as long as Eivor agreed to bring him more Roman treasure should she find any in her travels. 

It had been a worthy trade. 

Eivor sighed as she sank her body into the hot water. The below-ground heating system, which was lit with two braisers on either side of the bath, had been a bikkja to install, but it had been well worth it. So long as wood was fed to the braisers, the bath stayed hot enough to soothe her aching muscles. 

Eivor knew that she was meant to spend this bath praying to Freya, Freyr, and Thor for fertility and love in her marriage, but she couldn’t bear to ask them for children. She knew that her mother had been happy to have her, and she had still been a fierce shieldmaiden, but Eivor couldn’t bring herself to ask for swift childbearing. One day, perhaps, she’d agree to one. She knew that the line of Ragnar should not end with Ivarr, and she liked the settlement’s children well enough, but that day was far off. 

She made a mental note to see Valka after her bath.

Instead of children and love, Eivor prayed to the gods for a prosperous and powerful union as she cleansed her body and hair. She asked Thor to lend them his hammer in times of strife and battle. She asked Freya to shield them from harm with her Seidr and provide them with gold. And she asked Freyr for a fair-weather marriage and good harvests for her people. 

After finishing her bathing ritual, washing away her old life, Eivor stood and dressed herself in a simple tunic. She made her way up the trail to Valka’s hut. She hoped that the eclectic Vӧlva would already be awake for the morning. 

“The gods speak good tidings of this day,” Valka said in lieu of a greeting as Eivor walked through the door. “This marriage will change more of your fates than you know.”

“Hopefully not too much of my fate too quickly, my friend,” Eivor answered. “I would rather carve my own fate this day.”

Valka grinned. “One day, you will come to realize that the Norns weave, even for one as powerful as you.” 

“Even if that is true,” Eivor started, “I have come to ask a favor, to push away the, ehm, consequences of my fate farther away.”

Valka nodded, understanding. “Such potions are difficult to come by, but you are in luck. There are other women in the settlement who have come to me for similar concoctions.”

Eivor watched as the Vӧlva began crushing a mixture of herbs and berries, turning it into a liquid potion with some of Tekla’s stoutest ale. 

“You must take a drink of this every single morning to keep Freya from your womb. Even just one missed dose will allow her access to you. You must bring me the items on this list each month to renew the potion,” Valka explained. 

Eivor took the bottle of potent liquid and nodded. “Thank you, Valka. I appreciate this more than you know.” She took a drink from the bottle and grimaced. It was a foul brew, but as long as it did its job, she did not care.

Valka just smiled. “Go now, and finish preparing for this occasion of fate.”

______________________________________________________________________

By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, Eivor had been thoroughly prepared for her wedding. She had dressed in the gown that Randvi had given her, and her sister had spent the morning talking with her as she braided Eivor’s hair, decorating it with the fine beads and hoops that Svend had gifted. 

Though Randvi had forbidden Eivor for carrying more weapons and armor than her father’s axe, which she would gift to Ivarr during their union, she had slipped Sigurd’s gift to her under the long sleeve of her left arm. It made her feel more comfortable and protected. 

A few of the village children had even come running into the longhouse like Fenrir himself was chasing them. They had presented her with many beautiful flowers woven into a tight crown. She had smiled and embraced them warmly, promising to wear it during the ritual. 

And now, Eivor took a deep breath before following Randvi out the door of the longhouse. They made their way up the path to the cliff overlooking the settlement. Where the bench that she and Ivarr had shared before the wolf attack had been, now stood an arbor symbolizing the gate to the realm of the gods. 

Leaving Randvi’s side as the redhead went to take her seat by Sigurd, Eivor met Ivarr under the arbor. She did her best not to look out over the crowd of people. Every citizen and warrior of the Raven Clan, along with a good deal of Ubba and Ivarr’s men, sat, watching them with unblinking eyes. Even Ivarr’s brothers Halfdan, Hvitserk, and Bjorn had made it to Ravensthorpe from the far reaches they occupied. She had heard that Bjorn and Hvitserk had been all the way in Rome when the messenger Ravens had found them. 

Looking at her soon to be husband, Eivor let her eyes travel his form. His hair hung in neat braids that Ubba must have put there, as they must have required great patience. He wore a creamy tunic of fine wool over oiled goat-leather pants. Embroidered at each of his arms were symbols of Mjolnir and Gungnir, and the symbols at his chest mirrored the symbols on her own. At his waist was a large sword that had obviously seen many battles but had been polished to a gleaming shine. Taking his hands, she noticed how he looked at her strangely. 

Ivarr held his hands out toward, looking her over as she took them, steadying herself. He had seen her in many states - drunken, sneaking, fighting - but in none of them was she free of her armor and the size and protection it gave her. She seemed smaller to him now, softer at the chest and hips, but no less fierce. He could see evidence of the strength of her body beneath the linen of her gown and in the way that she carried herself. Once again, the word ‘Valkyrie’ came unto his mind.

Syrbjorn approached the couple. 

“As Jarl of this borough, I stand here today before my own daughter, Eivor Wolf-Kissed and Ivarr Ragnarsson,” Syrbjorn Jarl began. “We are here before the gods today to witness the union between these two mighty warriors, a union that will bring together two powerful clans.”

There was a cheer from those in the audience. 

“Ivarr, present your blade, that your bride may use it to protect your home, your heirs, and your head.”

Pulling the sword from its place at his side, Ivarr presented it before him. 

“This is the Sword of Kings, taken from my own father, Ragnar Lothbrok’s, burial mound.” There was a quiet gasp among those in the audience. “It was always meant to be ceremonial, but my father believed very strongly that something so fine should not be wasted on ceremony. I give you this blade as a symbol of my protection over you, but also so that you may use it, in turn, to hew the heads from the enemies, Saxon and otherwise, who would threaten us.”

“Eivor, my daughter, present your blade, that your husband may use it to protect your home, your heirs, and your head.”

Pulling Varin’s axe from her hip, Eivor presented it to Ivarr. 

“This axe belonged to the father of my blood, Varin. He wielded this weapon the day that he died. It remained lost until I took it back from Kjotve the Cruel when I severed his head from his body with it. I have used this axe in defense of myself, my clan, and my honor. Now, I give it to you as a sign of my trust in you to take up those defenses.”

Styrbjorn pulled two arm rings from his cloak. Ivarr’s gift to Eivor was hung delicately on the tip of his sword. In order for Eivor to hang her gift to Ivarr, she had to turn the axe upside down to hang it on the axe’s beard. But they managed. 

“Ivarr. You have presented Eivor with a fine arm ring. Now you may make your oaths before the gods.”

“Before Odin, Thor, Freya, and all the gods, I make this oath,” Ivarr vowed. “I will be your faithful husband from this day on. I will protect you as you protect me. I will share with you my life, my burdens, and my bed, and I will share them with no others. I will provide you comfort and protection until the day that I depart this world for Valhalla. If I fail in these oaths, may I never reach the gates of Valhalla, doomed to rot in Helheim. Please accept this arm ring as a symbol of my promise.”

Everyone in the audience sat in dumb silence for a long moment after Ivarr finished his vow. Not only were his promises unexpected, but they were highly untraditional. He would have been well within his rights as a Drengr not to promise faithfulness. And he certainly was not expected to renounce his place in Valhalla should he fail to be so.

“Eivor. Do you accept this oath? Will you make an oath of your own?” Styrbjorn prompted when she just stared for a moment. 

“I accept your oaths to me, Ivarr and make mine in return,” Eivor accepted. “Before Odin, Thor, Freya, and all the gods, I make this oath. I will remain your faithful wife, and I will renounce all others. I will stand at your back and serve as the protector of our home, our people, and your life. Your allies will be my allies. Your enemies will be my enemies, and I shall use this sword to defeat our enemies. If I should fail in these oaths, may I never take my place in the corpse hall. Take this ring as a symbol of my promise.“

Eivor couldn’t believe that she had renounced the corpse hall should she stray or fail to keep Ivarr’s head on her shoulders. The words had tumbled freely from her lips, an echo of his own promises, with little control. And now that she had said them, she was bound by them. 

Ivarr and Eivor took their arm rings from the tip of the other’s blade and put them firmly on their forearms to secure the marriage. 

“You are now married,” Styrbjorn Jarl announced. “You may kiss under the sprig of Freya’s herb to solidify your union.”

Before Eivor could overthink her way out of the kiss, Ivarr’s hands met the sides of her face. And just like that, the rest of the world - the cheers from their clans, the eyes upon them - it all vanished. It was just her and Ivarr, and all was quiet. 

“May I?” Ivarr asked in an uncharacteristic show of gentleness. 

At her nod, Ivarr, her husband, leaned in. As his lips met hers for the first time, she let out a short gasp before leaning into him, meeting his kiss. Her hands came up to rest behind his head as he deepened the kiss slightly with a cheeky nip at her lower lip. Pulling away, she couldn't tear her eyes off of his. 

“Bruð-hlaup!” Ubba shouted as the new couple parted. 

And everyone took off, running toward the longhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It was kind of a beast to write and took me all day. I finally just decided to split this day into two (three?) chapters. It's still a bit longer. 
> 
> Thank you for your congratulations and your comments! They really do keep me going. I also may or may not base some of my scenes on your comments so if you have things that you'd like to see or certain bits of characterization you like, feel free to mention it. It may just make it into the later story as it develops. <3


	9. Frigg's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party. A couching. A wedding night ;) 
> 
> **This is rated E for a reason. If you are not 18+, please leave. This is your only warning.**
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 9: Frigg’s Eve

As was customary, Eivor conveniently won the Bruð-hlaup foot race to the long house with Ivarr hot on her heels. Stopping at the entrance, she looked up at her husband, blood filling her cheeks as she remembered the kiss they had shared under the mistletoe. 

As per tradition, Ivarr scooped up Eivor with one arm supporting her back and the other under her knees. This close, she could feel the warmth of his body and the firm muscles of his chest below his tunic. 

“Is this wholly necessary?” Eivor grunted as Ivarr stepped across the threshold of the longhouse with her. 

“It’s tradition,” Ivarr laughed. “And that seer of yours seems big on tradition. Wouldn’t want to anger the gods and all that.” 

When Ivarr finally set her down at the head of the table, something in his body, some visceral part of him, wanted to pull her close again. He wouldn’t test his luck, though. She was his wife now, but she was also a mighty Drengr and he was sure she had emasculated plenty of men for less. 

Within minutes, the cheering townsfolk had taken their places at the long table. Ivarr and Eivor were at the center of the head of the table with Styrbjorn sat at Eivor’s right and Ubba at Ivarr’s left. 

“We have been wed,” Eivor called to the masses. “And as the winner of the Bruð-hlaup, I believe it is Ubba who will be serving us all tonight! Skål!”

With a grin, Ubba filled first Eivor’s cup and then his brother’s and Styrbrjon’s. The rest of the hall was served by members of Ubba’s clan. Then, Ubba raised his horn in the air. 

“To Ivarr and Eivor! May they bring peace and unity to our clans! Skål!”

“SKÅL!”

As everyone began drinking and feasting, Ubba grinned at his brother and pulled out his sword to hand to Ivarr. “Brother, it is time to make your sword toss! Prove your virility to your new bride!” 

Ivarr took up the sword with a roll of his eyes and knocked back the rest of his mead horn. With a wink tossed toward Eivor, Ivarr hopped onto the feasting table and made his way gracefully to the center of it. Eivor had to admit, his footfalls were rather delicate, as if he had no bones to weigh him down. 

Ivarr grabbed the hilt of the sword firmly and , with a battle cry, he pulled back his arm and thrusted the sword into the air. The blade hit its mark in one of the support beams. Sigurd climbed up onto the beams to give the official measurement of what didn’t make its way through. 

“Two finger-widths!” Sigurd shouted. 

The hall erupted in cheers and Ivarr jumped down to sit beside Eivor again. 

“I can see your ego growing,” Eivor murmured teasingly, passing Ivarr another horn of mead. “But it was an impressive throw. My brother’s marital toss had two whole hand lengths left on his side of the beam.” 

“I’m sure Styrbjorn was very proud,” Ivarr said with a laugh. 

Eventually, Bragi and Petra started playing a lively jig and Ivarr stood, holding a hand out to her. “It is our wedding. I suppose we should dance. Join me.” 

Eivor took his hand, and something inside her shifted curiously. She could feel her hand becoming a little clammy in his grip and her stomach was fluttering, but Ivarr didn’t seem to notice the moisture of her palms and she tried to ignore the fluttering. 

Facing close together, Eivor and Ivarr began their dance. Watching the surprising grace in Ivarr’s movements, Eivor could see how he had earned the name ‘Boneless.’ He moved like a reed in the wind, and she did her best to follow his lead. 

“Where did you learn to move this way, Ivarr?” Eivor couldn’t help but ask. She’d always been a little stiff in her movements, relying more on strength and stamina than evasion and flexibility, and would gladly learn from her husband.

Ivarr laughed. “I’m sure that you noticed that my brothers are all older and bigger than I am. They take after our father. But my mother was a slight woman. I had to be nimble and fast to keep up.”

Eivor nodded. “Both Halfdan and Ubba are formidable men. Being faster, more intelligent, is a smart strategy.”

Ivarr and Eivor remained on the dance floor for a few more of Bragi’s songs. Eivor even taught a Reda a few of their traditional dances. She often felt for the child, but he was wise beyond his years and refused any sort of help or comfort from adults. 

After the children had gone to bed and Tekla’s ale flowed more strongly, the party really began to liven up. Several of the warriors had formed a circle at one end of the hall and had invented a new game to entertain themselves with some bloodshed. They would have rounds of fistfights with the winner facing a new competitor each round. But between each round, the contestants must consume a full horn of ale. Whoever made it through ten rounds without falling over would win. 

Eivor doubted they’d have a victor by morning, but it was quite entertaining to watch. Especially so when Ubba and Halfdan had gotten into the ring to challenge each other. The fight lasted so long that they had to make a new rule so that if a fight lasted too long, the competitors would have to pause and drink at increasing intervals until someone won or passed out. 

Eivor thought briefly about hopping in the ring with Ivarr, but Randvi had approached her before she could make her way back to Ivarr to suggest it. 

“Your wedding feast surely is lively, Eivor,” the redhead greeted her with a hug. 

Eivor chuckled. “It is. I think we can blame Ubba and Halfdan for most of it. The Ragnarssons are adept feasters.” 

Randvi nodded a little shortly and didn’t meet Eivor’s eyes. 

“What is the matter, sister? This is a feast! Enjoy yourself! Challenge Sunniva to the ring!”

Randvi laughed at that. “Eivor, we both know that Sunniva would likely end my life with a single blow. She’s far too much like you.” 

“She’d better be,” Eivor grinned. “I trained her myself. Now, will you tell me what has you so unnerved?”

Randvi sighed. “Styrbjorn wants to know if you are ready for the couching.” 

Eivor’s entire world grinded to a screeching halt for a long, terrifying, excruciating moment. Then, her entire body was set alight by rage. 

“He wants me to have a couching?” Eivor shrieked. Had Bragi and the fighting not been so loud, she might have caused a scene, but she didn’t care. “That pig-faced bacraut! He brought me to England and I obeyed. He sold my hand like a thrall and I obeyed. I secured us an alliance. And now he means to lead me to my bedchamber and let my friends and family see me plowed by a Ragnarsson? Fuck, Randvi, you didn’t even have a couching.” 

Randvi groaned. “I don’t think he’d intended on it, no. But Valka’s insisting as if our very lives depend on you completing every tradition our people have. The woman sacrificed five of our best milking goats to Thor this morning, Eivor!”

Eivor sighed deeply. “Fine, Randvi. I know better than to argue with Valka, though I will have many strong words for her in the morning. If Ivarr agrees to it, the ritual may take place, but only as far as the door. And then everyone must leave.” 

Truth be told, Eivor had had very little intention of consummating her marriage that night. If ever. Though she was not shy of sex and had had several bed partners in the past, it felt wrong, dirty even, to go to bed with Ivarr knowing that it wasn’t really their choice to do so. Damn that seer wench. 

______________________________________________________________________

Eivor and Ivarr were led through town by torchlight. Styrbjorn led the way while Ubba, Halfdan Sigurd, Randvi, and several others from the Ragnarsson clan whom Eivor had not med before surrounded the new couple. Rather than leading them to Eivor’s room in the longhouse, where the party still raged, and likely would continue for at least a week, they led them up the path toward the waterfall where they had married. 

Stepping through the rushing water, Eivor understood why they had been led here. The little cave had been thoroughly cleaned out. At one side of the room was a barrel of Tekla’s mead and a few days’ worth of rations. And on the other side was a large bed, which would likely replace Eivor’s narrower one in her room in the longhouse. It was, blessedly, large enough that both Ivarr and Eivor could comfortably fit with room to stretch their arms and legs. They had also been kind enough to place a brazier at the center of the cavern to ward off the worst of the damp chill that usually permeated this place. 

Randvi gave Eivor a sisterly embrace before parting ways with the rest of the escort. She, too, knew what it was like to be escorted into one’s marriage bed. 

And then they were alone. 

After taking a few calming breaths, allowing the sound of rushing water to soothe her, Eivor sent a quick mental prayer to Tyr for courage. She was Eivor Wolf-Kissed, a formidable Drengr, and she liked to think of herself as an accomplished lover. Whatever happened this night, she would make peace with it and do her best to enjoy it. Eivor knew that there was not yet love between her and her husband, but Ivarr had gone so far as to pledge his fidelity to her in his vows. That had to count for something. 

Ivarr gave Eivor her moment of vulnerability without comment or intrusion. He did, however, pour them each a tankard of ale to help them through this night. He placed one of the tankard’s in her hands and motioned for her to sit beside him on the bed. 

“I know that I have been a cock at times, Eivor,” Ivarr acknowledged in a display of honesty. “But, for what it is worth, I do not believe that Ubba and Styrbjorn have made a terrible choice for us. You are a good fighter, and I respect you. You are my wife now, and I will not harm you.”

Eivor granted Ivarr with a true, blindingly bright smile. “Thank you, Ivarr. I know you do not say such things lightly. I hope you know that I respect you in kind.” 

Draining her tankard and summoning every ounce of courage within her, Eivor stood. In the light of the brazier that warmed their room, she stood before Ivar and began to pull at the lacings of her dress. If nothing else, she would be glad to be rid of the garment. 

Ivarr watched Eivor with hungry eyes and a dry mouth as she slowly untied the bindings of her garment. When all the laces were undone, his eyes met hers as she shrugged the sleeves from her shoulders and let the fabric fall to the floor, leaving her in a nearly translucent chemise that had separated her skin from the structure of the gown. 

Though the brazier was lit, the air in the room still had a slight chill to it and he could see the way her breasts peaked, caught on the fabric, without their usual bindings. As Eivor shifted under his gaze, Ivarr could make out the shadow at the dip of her waist and the slight fullness to her hips. 

Dipping his eyes lower, Ivarr could catch the faintest of glimpses of her milky thighs with each shift of her weight. Below the hem, strong calves led into slim ankles, and he was nearly blindsided by the sudden craving to have those legs squeezing him ‘round the waist. Or better yet, gripping onto his skull for dear life. 

Eivor bit her lip in a decidedly erotic motion and Ivarr met her eyes briefly once more before his eyes were distracted by movement. Eivor gripped the bottom of her undertunic and pulled it swiftly over her head before dropping it indelicately to the floor. 

Eivor stood before Ivarr, naked as the day she was whelped from her mother’s womb. Every scar, blemish, and curve was on display with absolutely nothing to hide her from his gaze. A slight chill ran through her body, and she could feel her nipples contracting, peaking fully under his gaze. Despite the chill and the truly surreal situation she found herself in, she could also feel a slow heat beginning to pool between her legs. 

Ivarr’s gaze raked roguishly across Eivor’s body. Her body sported many scars, kisses from blades of battles past. Some of them were silvery with age in the firelight and some were newer, pink like the scar on his own face. They served as a reminder that the woman before him was a battle-hardened Valkyrie, and that knowledge would only make their coupling sweeter. Before the night was through, he would taste each of them with his tongue. Perhaps one day, she might even tell him their stories. 

Ivarr stood and approached Eivor slowly, giving her plenty of time to spurn him. But words of rejection never came. Placing his hands on Eivor’s waist, Ivarr pulled her in close to his body, her naked form meeting him between the thin layers of his clothing. 

Dipping close enough to her ear that she could feel his warm breath washing down her neck, Ivarr murmured “You are a vision.” His lips met hers, then, in a searing kiss. His clothed leg slipped between her thighs and she could feel her sex sliding against the soft leather. She would never admit to the high keen that escaped her throat, swallowed by Ivarr’s tongue as it teased hers. 

Eivor stepped forward, putting pressure against Ivarr until his knees hit the edge of their bed and he went tumbling back, bouncing shallowly as Eivor fell against him, legs splayed to either side of his hips and her arms supporting herself over his head. He slid a palm up her side, causing her to squirm a little, a tidbit he’d store in his mind for later use, and gripped her breast lightly. He worked the fleshy mound briefly in his hand before tweaking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Ivarr used the tweak as a distraction to roll her onto her back, where he laid between her legs, pinning her. Starting at the kiss of the wolf, he began his journey over her scars. He placed sucking kisses down her neck on his way to her chest. On the way, he followed the bath of a sword-bite that sliced between her two collar bones before making his way to her breasts. 

Eivor gasped as Ivarr’s mouth closed around a nipple, sucking deeply as his tongue flicked back and forth. She had never had particularly large breasts, having had far too much muscle below them to offer much flesh, but Ivarr did not seem to mind. He worshiped one breast with his mouth, a simulacrum of what he would later do at her core, and the other with his hand. She cried out and attempted to arch her hips into his when Ivarr nipped the stiff peak of one breast with his teeth and pinched the other roughly with his fingers. 

Pulling away with a lewd pop, Ivarr grinned up at Eivor. “Tell me what you want, Wolf-Kissed, and you shall have it. You need only ask.” 

Not ready to lose her pride, Eivor grunted and tried to push his shoulders down toward her twitching hips. She wanted his mouth on her more than she wanted to breathe, but she did not have the words to tell him such. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ivarr teased, pulling away and sitting up enough to pull his tunic over his head in an attempt to cool some of the heat within him. “I want you to tell me, Eivor.” 

With a growl, Eivor pulled Ivarr back up and pushed him onto his back. Before his could regain his bearings, she climbed up him like a wildcat to place her knees on either side of his neck, sitting back on his chest for a moment as she looked down at him. 

Ivarr’s hands immediately went to the plush curve of Eivor’s ass, supporting her weight above him. “Ask and you shall receive,” Ivarr purred before biting the inside of one creamy thigh. He could feel the strong muscle twitch below his teeth, but there was still a womanly softness there that had his plowsword straining against the ties of his breeches. 

Eivor moaned at the point of pain on her thigh and gripped the braids at Ivarr’s skull. Several of the beads skittered along the stone floors but she cared not. “I want you to use your mouth,” she growled. “Devour me.”

Using his hands at her rear to pull her forward onto his face, Ivarr did just as she asked. He teased his tongue up and down the slit of her sweet honeypot, catching her sensitive button of nerves on each upstroke. Gravity kept the sweet bundle unhooded and easy to access, but he kept his touches light and teasing, using his hands to keep her quivering thighs open as she instinctively tried to lock them around him. 

Eivor moaned deep in her chest and tried to grind into his silver tongue, but the bacraut kept his touches teasing. As her cries became louder, more pleading, desperate, Ivarr must have taken some mercy as he slid one of his hands up to her dripping folds. He pressed two thick fingers into her body, curling them forward as he secured his lips on either side of her clitorus and sucked deeply. 

Eivor was beyond shame as she nearly screamed, buckling at the hips and catching herself with her hands at the headboard. This just freed up more room for Ivarr to work his Seidr on her. The exquisite pressure and suction was too much and the band in her lower stomach was beginning to tighten already. 

“Ivarr!” she gasped, and it was the sweetest music to hear his name spoken so brokenly. “Ivarr! Stop! I’m going to-!”

Pulling his mouth free with an audible pop, Ivarr smirked into her, but his fingers did not stop. “Shush. There will be many more where this comes from. Let go. I want to taste you.” And with that, his lips were secured once more around her and he sucked hard and curled his fingers with little mercy. 

With a few more strokes of Ivarr’s wicked tongue, Eivor exploded into a million pieces. She could have sworn that she could see the corpse hall before her for just a blissful moment before the tension in her snapped and she felt herself in an endless freefall. 

When sensation returned to Eivor’s mind and body, she was on her back, panting and covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Ivarr was gently stroking one shaking thigh as he waited for her hugr to come back to her body. Blinking her eyes, she could see that his chin was still damp with her moisture and most of his braids had been tugged free, leaving him disheveled. 

“I see you have returned to me, Wolf-Kissed,” Ivarr grinned smugly. “Do you have it in you to continue, or do you need more time to rest?”

If she didn’t know better, Eivor might think he was beginning to care. 

“You may continue, Ivarr. That is, if you are not to drunk to plow, Boneless,” Eivor quipped. 

“Ah, and so the Wolf has teeth!” Ivarr laughed, standing just beside the bed. He swiftly untied the laces of his breeches and shoved them, along with his boots, away. “As you can see, I am never too drunk to plow.”

As she could see, indeed. He was not what Eivor was expecting. He was better. He was slightly shorter than she had guessed, but hung with far greater girth than she could have imagined. She felt the heat in her belly begin to burn anew at the sight of him. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to be filled by him, stretched until it burned. 

“Come here, Ivarr,” Eivor murmured, laying back and spreading her legs to him in open invitation. And who was he to refuse her?

Ivarr climbed over top of his bride and waited a moment, gazing down at her as if trying to commit her to memory. She was sure she looked a mess, but she was determined to keep going. She reached down and nearly moaned just from the weight and girth of him in her palm as Ivarr pressed into her touch. She positioned him until she could feel the head slipping between her folds and helped to guide him forward inch by glorious inch. 

By the time Ivarr was buried to the hilt inside of her, he was quaking with the urge to move. “I will not hold back,” he gasped, warning.”

“Good.”

And with that, Ivarr was pushing in and out of her, ramming her into the headboard as it thundered like Thor’s hammer into the stone wall behind it. Eivor could do naught but hold on for many long moments as the burn gave way into deep, soul-reaching pleasure. She managed to use his distraction and momentum to, once again, flip him over onto his back. She managed to do so without dislodging him or ruining their rhythm. 

When Ivarr was suddenly on his back with Eivor above him, riding him as if their lives depended on it. Planting his feet firmly on the mattress, all he could manage was to hold her by the hips, guiding her as he pushed up into her. 

She was a vision above him. Her blonde hair was freed from its braiding and fell down her back in curls. He could not help but to reach a hand up into the silken tresses and pull back, baring her entire front to him. Her long neck stretched back and her breasts bounced pleasingly with each thrust. Fuck. He was already close to his peak. 

With a grunt, Ivarr removed his hand from Eivor’s hair, but her head stayed tossed back. Beautiful. He snaked the hand down to tease and rub at her oversensitive clit. He could feel the moment that the band within her snapped once more and she convulsed, milking his release from him as he came with a grunt. His thrusts slowed, riding the waves out to their finish, before he stopped completely. 

Eivor rolled off of Ivarr’s stomach with a loud squelch as he exited her ane panted, staring up at the ceiling of their cave. The coupling had been much better than she could have dreamed and she smiled slightly as her eyelids began to flutter closed. The last thing she felt before entering the realm of dreams was Ivarr pulling her close into his warm body. Strangely, she didn’t seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost split this into two installments - it's a big chapter. And there was a lot of research into wedding customs that went into this. (I couldn't include all of it, but the vikings were wild y'all. Look it up sometime.) However, I decided that I'm much nicer than that. You're welcome. I hope you all enjoyed this and please let me know what you think.


	10. Chapter 10: This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn why Valka's been insisting on so many traditions. 
> 
> WARNING: Character death ahead. It's not canon, but not minor, so I'm gonna call it "medium character death" It's necessary to push the plot along and I don't think it'll be too upsetting (happens off screen) but now you know. Also there's some canon typical violence and battle here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edit: I edited to fix a few inconsistencies, as well as change the word Sciropscire to East Anglia at the very end. I was getting a little ahead of myself at midnight. A new chapter will probably be up late tonight or early tomorrow.

Chapter 10: This Means War

Eivor woke with a start to the sound of screams and the smell of burning. She could hear the sharp clang of metal on metal, and she knew that a battle was nearby. She felt pinned down into the furs, a hot body pressing into hers. She struggled blindly for a moment against the weight before realizing who it was. 

“Ivarr,” Eivor urged. “Damn it alll, Ivarr. Wake up.” She shook at the man’s body, trying to rouse him faster. 

“What in Hel’s name is wrong, woman?” Ivarr grumbled, attempting to curl back into the furs. He had been in a deep slumber and wasn’t thrilled at being awoken.

“Get up. Get off of me. Ravensthorpe is under attack,” Eivor grunted, finally pushing his weight from her and jumping up. 

“Ravensthorpe is,” there was a pause as Ivarr realized what was going on. “Fuck!”

“Good. You are awake. Look around for anything you can use as a weapon. We have none. Well nearly none.” Eivor was ever thankful that she had hidden the bracer blade in the sleeve of her wedding gown. 

“No weapons. And no armor,” Ivarr groused, pulling on his pants and boots and tossing his tunic to Eivor. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the confining gown. “We just have to make it to the longhouse.”

A soldier, not one of theirs, bursted through the waterfall and into their cave. His eyes set immediately on Ivarr, not seeing Eivor in the corner and he grinned, honing in on his target. 

“Found you,” the man smirked, but it was the last thing he would ever say, as his body crumpled to the floor, dead before he hit it. 

Eivor stood just behind where the soldier had once been, Ivarr’s wedding tunic hanging loosely from her, covered in the man’s blood. Her wrist blade had pierced his heart through the separation of his ribs. Moving quickly, Eivor pulled the dead soldier’s blade from his hands and offered it to Ivarr. 

In the low light of what remained of their brazier, Ivarr could see that the blade was of fine black steel with red detailing. Its most notable feature, however, was the golden dragon that looped its way around the hilt. Ivarr growled, taking it from Eivor with disbelieving eyes. 

“Rhodri,” Ivarr spat. “This is the symbol of the Britons. I will find that sick fucking bacraut and end his life.”

“We must first make it to the longhouse for our armor, Ivarr. Come with me! We are of no use dead!”

With that, Eivor pushed her way to the other side of the waterfall that protected them. Keeping her blade arm at the ready, Eivor insured that Ivarr stayed with her, not giving into his battle lust quite yet, by holding onto him with her left hand and bodily dragging him with her. 

“Let go of me, woman,” Ivarr griped when they made it inside the longhouse. 

It was an absolute disaster. Their men had been caught in the middle of the feast, most of them likely too drunk to realize what had happened before it was too late. Bodies of guards belonging to Ivarr’s clan as well as her own were left where they had fallen, axes in hand but too late to do anything about it. With a sick feeling, Evior realized that the scene was not at all unlike the Oathbreaker’s attack the night that her parents had been killed. At least they would be on their way to the corpse hall by now. 

Pushing aside her sudden feelings of guilt and grief, Eivor led Ivarr into her room, where she quickly pulled on her armor and leant him a spare set. It didn’t fit him well, but it would have to do until this mess was settled. She also passed him her father’s axe, which Randvi must have placed in here after the ceremony. It was his now, after all. 

“Let us join the fray, Ivarr,” Eivor grinned, taking up the Sword of Kings, Ivarr’s gift to her. 

Together, the pair made their way swiftly to the docks, where their men had, impressively, pushed the attackers back to. On the way, they had passed several women and children, who Eivor instructed to wait for them in the woods north of the settlement, where she hoped it was safe. 

Jumping into battle with a cry, Eivor managed to save Sigurd from losing an arm to an enemy brute. Sigurd was flailing his blade wildly at each enemy he could find, far unlike the cool and collected style her brother usually fought with. Likely still drunk. 

She did not have time to dwell on her brother, however, as she was hit squarely in the stomach by a blunt war hammer. Fuck, it hurt, but she didn’t think there was any major damage. She was, however, thrown to the ground by the hit and narrowly missed a second blow, this time to her face, by rolling out of the way and staggering back to her feet. 

Eivor regained her balance as quickly as she could, dodging two more hits from the enemy’s warhammer, before launching herself bodily at the soldier, attempting to bring the blade of her sword down into his chest. He dodged, and she missed her mark, landing on one knee. Time seemed to slow, however, as she spun back around from her position on the ground and thrust her blade into the stomach of her attacker as he pulled his massive hammer back for the final blow. 

There was no time to celebrate her little victory as the enemy crumpled to the ground. She yanked hard on her blade, pulling it from his body with a wet noise, and readied herself for the next foe. 

Looking around, her eyes spotted Ivarr. He was fighting like a madman. His face was running with the blood of his enemies and he dealt quick strikes against the three enemies that had surrounded him. He moved so quickly that none of them could really get their bearings, but it cost him in power, his slices shallower than they could be, dragging it out. Or maybe that was on purpose. 

As a fourth crept up behind Ivarr, blade at the ready, Evior began sprinting toward her husband. 

“The King Killer! I’ve found him!” He shouted, bringing all eyes to Ivarr, and the wolves began closing in on him. 

Eivor managed to take the head of the warrior behind Ivarr with a powerful swing of her blade, but she couldn’t stop him before he’d shouted. She placed her back at Ivarr’s with her blade at the ready. 

“I suppose now is when we test just how true our vows were?” Ivarr grinned, far too pleased with the situation. 

“Don’t die, Ivarr,” was all Eivor could manage as the first round of soldiers made their way through. Many were being cut down by their clans in their single mindedness, but far too many were making it to the pair. 

Calculating the risk, Eivor allowed them to get in close, tighter than was likely wise. Gods she hoped this worked. 

“Duck!” she shouted at Ivarr, and hoping that he had listened to her, she spun her blade in a circle, taking the heads of at least five men before it lodged halfway into the neck of a sixth. Gods be praised, Ivarr wasn’t one of them. 

Ivarr noticed Eivor struggling to free her blade from one man’s neck as another approached with a broadaxe. He pulled a throwing axe from his belt and launched it between Eivor and the soldier, over the stuck blade, landing in the opportunistic attacker’s face. 

Finally freeing her blade, she immediately swung it to the side, cutting down a Saxon soldier at Ivarr’s side who’d tried to take the opportunity to kill him. 

And so the rest of the battle went, Eivor and Ivarr taking turns saving the other’s skin before finally the waves stopped coming and everything was quiet once more. 

Ivarr and Eivor stumbled their way up to the rest of their forces just as Sigurd collapsed to the ground with an anguished scream. 

“Brother!” Eivor called, rushing to his side. “Sigurd. What happened? Are you hurt?” 

There were tears streaming from Sigurd’s eyes, shocking Eivor. The last time she had seen her brother shed a single tear had been on the day that his mother had succumbed to her long fight with illness. 

“Eivor,” her brother cried. “It’s… he’s… He’s gone,” he finished. 

“Who?” Eivor began to ask before Sigurd was ripped from her by none other than Dag Nithilson. 

“Styrbjorn Jarl is dead,” Dag snapped. “Our Jarl is dead and you were too busy being plowed to notice.” 

A stiff silence overtook their remaining warriors at Dag’s words. Eivor looked up at the big brute with as much ice as she could muster. 

“Excuse me, Dag?” Eivor growled. The absolute audacity of this man would be his end. “You are going to blame this attack on the fact that I was in my gods damned marriage bed? Do you mean to imply that every single one of our warriors is so inept that my being missing from your ranks for a few hours is the cause of this mess?”

“All I am saying,” Dag snarled, “is that the attack never would have happened had you not brought these Ragnarssons into our home.”

“I brought them here?” Eivor exclaimed. “Styrbjorn is the one who arranged the marriage, Dag. Ubba agreed. They are here to benefit our clan. It is not my fault that our Jarl is dead. You are drunk and grieving, Dag, so I will have mercy. But you do not deserve it. Go to the barracks and live to fight another day.”

With that, Eivor stormed away toward the longhouse to begin the process of cleaning this mess up. Before Dag could slink away, however, Ivarr had him by the throat. 

“My wife is kinder than I am. Speak to Eivor like that again, and I will have you strung up as a blood eagle in the middle of town.” 

His threat made, Ivarr tossed Dag, big and brutish as he was, to the ground and walked away to follow Eivor. 

______________________________________________________________________

It was nearly a week later when the funerals had all been finished. They had been lucky that most of the deaths on their side were mercenaries who had been hired as extra guards. They were not without grievous loss, however. One of Rhodri’s soldiers had taken Styrbjorn’s head where he sat in his throne when he refused to give them Eivor and Ivarr’s location. 

His ax had been in hand, ready to fight, but he had not yet risen to meet his enemies. Eivor didn’t know where his hugr had gone, but she had prayed that, even if Odin hadn’t accepted him for some reason, Freya would take pity on her father and take him into her hall. She truly hoped that at least one of her fathers would join her in the afterlife. 

Though Sigurd was meant to be Jarl in his father’s place, they had been unable to crown him. After the funeral, he had taken to his bed chamber for several days and refused to leave. Each time Eivor asked after him, Randvi just shook her head and looked to be on the brink of tears. 

With Styrbjorn and Sigurd both out of commission, it was left to Eivor to take up the slack. She had organized all of the funerals, dealt with delegating what resources they still had to rebuild what was damaged, and decided what they should do with all the Saxon bodies. They had loaded onto one of Rhodri’s ships with his dead and sent sailing down the river as a message when Ivarr’s brothers had departed. Someone would find it. Ivarr had actually come up with that one. 

Now, Eivor, Randvi, and Ivarr were around the alliance table, arguing about what to do about the Briton’s.

“It’s simple,” Ivarr demanded. “We know he’s in Caustow Castle. We hit them directly. “

“No,” Eivor insisted, “It’s too risky. Ivarr and I will sneak in, take his head, and be out before anyone is the wiser.”

“You’re both mad!” Randvi exclaimed. “Rhodri’s forces are too great. To defeat him, we will need allies. You could start with East Anglia?”

“That’s why we will sneak in, Randvi!” Eivor said. “It will take too long to make enough allies to overthrow the Britons. Styrbjron deserves retribution now.”

“That is why we need to strike hard, to Hel with all this sneaking and diplomacy!” 

The arguments continued in circles. Eventually, there were many of Ravensthorpe’s warriors outside the war room, taking bets on who would win. That is, until someone smart enough to do so sent for Valka. 

“We have lost too many and will continue to lose them without the correct course of action,” Valka mused without greeting as she breezed into her room. 

“Then what do you suppose we do?” Randvi asked her, glad to have someone to break their endless tie. 

“That is a good question. We are lucky that we have not suffered greater losses. The attackers went to Eivor’s bedroom first, did they not? Expecting you and Ivarr to be there, I believe. The gods were with us that night. Now, I am not so sure.” 

Eivor was shocked when Randvi nodded at Valka’s suspicion. She knew that Rhodri’s men were after Ivarr. But she hadn't thought… 

“Is that why you insisted we follow all of the traditions?” Eivor blurted. “You knew and you said nothing?”

Valka shook her head. “I did not know what was coming, only what the gods told me. They told me to ensure that you and Ivarr were not in the longhouse that night. And now they are telling me this. We have no allies here, only with the Ragnarssons. But their forces have been diminished by Rhodri as well. Randvi’s choice is the correct one.” 

Randvi smiled at the Vӧlva’s decision, while Ivarr and Eivor scowled. 

“Fine,” Eivor spat. “We will pledge to East Anglia on the morrow.”

Ivarr slammed the dagger he’d taken off of Rhodri’s soldier into the territory on the map and stormed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right. There you have it. Please don't kill me for killing him. Eivor was never going to take the lead unless he died and something happened to Sigurd. 
> 
> I hope that the battle scene makes sense. Turns out, there's only so many different ways to say "Saxon Rhrodri's Soldier Guy."
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and let me know your thoughts!


	11. Kingkiller to Kingmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoliers for the East Anglia arc. A little bit filler but it sets up for some later plot. And an excuse for some jealous Ivarr.

Chapter 11: Kingkiller to Kingmaker

Eivor and Ivarr arrived in the kingdom of East Anglia after half a day’s sailing with their raiders. It was odd having Ivarr joining her crew, but it was nice having him around at the same time. He alternated between helping row when the mast needed to come down and joining Eivor at the stern, helping her follow the maps. He’d been in England far longer than she had, and his brother Halfdan was Jarl of these lands, though Halfdan had been spending far more time in the north as of late. 

They first met with the steward to the king-to-be, a Dane who had been asleep at a long table when they’d approached. He didn’t seem to enjoy his job at all, but he had pointed them in the right direction after Ivarr had gotten in his face and demanded to know where to find Oswald. It wasn’t the way Eivor would have chosen to deal with the situation had she been alone, but it did produce results. And Finnr was a bit of an arse. 

They had also found out some more troubling news through the encounter. Another group of Danes, under the leadership of a man by the name of Rued, was plaguing the citizens of Halfdan’s lands, Dand and Saxon alike, with little care for Halfdan’s claim. They were creating chaos wherever they went, seemingly for no reason other than to cause strife. It was not unlike Kjotve’s dealings in Norway, Eivor thought. 

When they finally found Oswald, future King of East Anglia, Eivor sighed to herself. The boy was around Eivor’s age, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen winters, but he was small and did not carry himself with the stature of a king. He pleaded with the Saxon and Dane townsfolk for peace between the two, but though he had conviction, he had little confidence. Neither party went away with any more trust than they started and Oswald stood there a little dumbfounded. They’d have a long way to go to make a king of him yet. 

“You, boy!” Ivarr called, striding up to him. “You had better not be this Oswald boy that we’re looking for. You can’t talk your way out of pig shit.”

“Excuse me?” the boy stuttered, shocked. “I am Oswald, and, um, who are you?”

Stepping between her husband and the boy, Eivor tried to go for the more gentle approach. “I am Eivor, of the Raven Clan, and this is my husband Ivarr Ragnarsson.” She elbowed Ivarr in the gut when he went to speak over her. “We are here to help with the Rued problem and get you on the throne.”

At the name “Ragnarsson,” Oswald took a step back, eye wide. 

“What stands between you and your throne, Oswald?” Eivor prompted with a glare at Ivarr, who held up his hands as if to say ‘Not my fault.’

“My marriage,” Oswald answered. “I need to be married to a Dane woman before I become king. Per the wishes of Halfdan Jarl. I am on my way to make preparations now.”

Ivarr rolled his eyes. It sounded just like one of his brothers to attempt peace through arranged marriage. “And who is this Dane woman that my brother wishes to play matchmaker with?”

“Her name is Valdis. She is a cousin of Halfdan’s. And I suppose you as well, then?” 

Ivarr barked out a laugh. “He wants you to marry Valdis? She’s his cousin via his mother, the sorry old sow, and no relation to me, technically. But I can’t imagine her settling down willingly. Least of all with a weak little worm. She’ll eat you alive.”

Oswald grimaced, but did not fight the offense. Which was exactly the problem, wasn’t it?

“It isn’t Valdis that’s the issue,” Oswald admitted. “She’s willing, but I need to gain the approval of her family first. And, well, her brothers like me about as much as you seem to.”

Eivor grinned. Finally, something she could work with. “How about we accompany you to these preparations? We’ll see if we can’t help you win over these brothers of hers. Dane to Dane.”

Oswald gave her a bright grin at the offer. “That would be much appreciated, Eivor! Thank you!” He really was a gentle boy, but he’d need to be a man to marry the likes of any relative of Halfdan’s. It would almost pain her to take his boyishness from him. Almost. 

______________________________________________________________________

The dinner at Oswald’s home was tense at best. The boy had no stones to speak of and Valdis’s brothers, Broder and Brothir, were both a pair of bacrauts. To Oswald’s credit, he’d attempted to make peace in the Saxon way, with his well spoken words and generous feast table, but those things did not speak to the Danes. He’d not win them without proving himself through violence. 

More than the problem with Oswald, Ivarr was growing increasingly bloodthirsty every time Broder opened his mouth. The man hadn’t taken his eye off of Eivor once the entire night. 

“Do I bore you, Wolf Kissed?” Broder asked after Eivor had dismissed his mocking of Oswald. 

“I am here to gain an alliance for my clan. That is all. You’d do well to stay out of my way,” she answered cooly. 

“You’d sooner crown the throne, you’d find it filled with less wood than this one,” Brothir huffed, gesturing to Oswald. 

“We’d all be better off if you had the stones to fight Rued’s clan on your own, but between the pair of you, I can’t find a single nugget,” Eivor quipped back. Ivarr could tell she was a few horns deep, and he couldn’t blame her. The dinner had been a shit show. But, though she hadn’t meant to be suggestive, he could tell that Broder was more than ready to take on her challenge of his manhood. 

“Watch your tongue, Wolf-Kissed, or you might just find it freed of your face,” Broder challenged, standing from his seat at the table. 

“How easily my words wound you. Imagine the ruin my axe would inflict on your rather flaccid ego, Broder,” Eivor spoke calmly, doing her best to put him in his place without rising to the challenge. 

Ivarr could see the heat rise in Broder’s cheeks moments before the man was on the table, striding towards him and his wife. Was the man stupid, clueless, or both? While he knew Eivor could take care of herself, had seen her put down more than a few enemies on the battlefield, Ivarr felt something monstrous welling in his chest.

Rising to meet the challenger Broder, Ivarr hopped up and kicked the table, flipping it and forcing the bacraut to land on his face. 

“And just who do you think you are?” Broder snarled, standing up, ready to throttle Ivarr now. “This is between me and the lady.”

Ivarr smirked. “I’m her husband, you stinking sack of cow dung.”

“Just like a friend of Oswald to need someone else to fight her battles,” Brothir snarked. 

“I don’t need anyone to fight any battles for me,” Eivor growled. And then she punched Brothir in the face. 

And that was the end of the peace talks. It was a two-on-two brawl, Eivor and Ivarr against the brothers dumb. The fight had been broken up by Finnr, but not before everyone’s knuckles had been bloodied and Eivor had gotten a black eye for the trouble. 

That night, as Ivarr and Eivor had bedded down in Oswald’s spare room, she’d been colder with him than she had at any point in their short acquaintance. Ivarr found that he didn’t like being on the receiving end of her ire. He’d rather have been fucking through the post fight high with her. When she’d tried to sleep on the floor, rather than next to him as she had every night since their wedding, it had been the last straw. 

“Come here,” Ivarr said from the bed, surprisingly gentle despite his souring mood. 

“Why?” Eivor growled softly. “Will you fight the floor for me as well?”

The comment took Ivarr aback. “Modesty isn’t a good look on you. You were just as much a part of that fight as I was.”

“You don’t have to fight my battles for me, Ivarr,” Eivor snapped, then sighed with a calming breath. “I fought my own battles long before our marriage. And I will not turn into a soft, quaking maiden just because I am married.”

“That idiot Dag has gotten under your skin,” Ivarr accused. It made sense. His words to her on the night of Rhodri’s attack had obviously not been the first time the two had had that argument. He doubted they had been the last, despite his threat. 

Eivor glared at him sharply, but did not refute him. But neither did she admit to it. That, alone, was proof enough that Dag’s accusations these last months hadn’t been totally correct. 

“Come here,” Ivarr said again, and didn’t say anything else until she complied, heaving herself up and dropping onto the furs with a sigh. “I told you that I respect you on our wedding night. Which I do. But the idiot offered me offense as well, and I wasn’t going to sit idly by like their sniveling king.”

Eivor looked at him oddly. “Broder didn’t speak a word to you until you punched him.”

Ivarr huffed softly. “That is true. But his eyes on you said many things that his mouth did not.”

“I noticed. But I was handling it, Ivarr. And now we are days behind in peace negotiations,” Eivor sighed. It really was time they couldn’t afford. 

Ivarr’s arms wrapped around Eivor from behind and his mouth found her ear, breath hot on her neck.

“You are mine,” Ivarr growled, arms tightening further around her. “I won’t apologize for what I did.”

Eivor hated how her mouth went dry and her abdomen fluttered at Ivarr’s proximity. They hadn’t been this close since the night of their wedding. There had been too much going on, too much to do. They’d rarely even slept at the same time. 

“I don’t expect you to, Ivarr. You wouldn’t be you if you did.” Eivor said, accepting. And it was true. He was rarely apologetic. She could take care of herself, but it was nice to have someone in her corner, when it counted. 

Ivarr grinned against her flesh and placed a kiss behind her ear. He was tempted to suck a bruising mark there to stake his claim, let it lead them to more, but he could feel Eivor’s fatigue in the slouch of her body against his. She wouldn’t deny him, but there would be time for that later. There was a storm brewing in East Anglia, and he’d rather Eivor be sharp than sated. 

———————————————————————————————————————

It was a long, hard road after that, but in the end, East Anglia had been victorious against the Dane Rued. And to absolutely everyone’s shock, it had been Oswald, back from the dead, who had won them the day. 

Eivor had been gutted when she had thought the boy was dead. He’d fought with heart, despite not having the skill to win the holmgang, and had taken Rued out with him, or so they had thought. At the time, Ivarr had seemed even a little down. The boy really did have impressive courage. And when it was time to rescue Oswald from Rued’s camp, Ivarr had led the charge, and it had pleased something deep inside of Eivor. 

Then, at the wedding, when Rued had attacked there, it was Oswald who finally put an end to the Dane’s reign of terror. It had been difficult for Eivor to watch Oswald fight Rued again, but Eivor had felt a pride for the boy like that of a parent, and she knew that East Anglia was in good hands.

______________________________________________________________________

During the boat ride back to Ravensthorpe, Ivarr left his oar as soon as the mast went up to join Eivor at her perch on the tail of their river steed. 

“You know, Ivarr,” Eivor teased, looking down at where he leaned casually against her supporting leg, “If we keep this up, they may have to start calling you kingmaker instead of kingkiller,”

“The whelp turned out better than I’d expected,” Ivarr said with a grin, “But do not think I’ve gone soft. I still have a king to kill. In fact,” he pulled out his map, “If we take this pather here, we could be at Caustow Castle tomorrow.”

Eivor shook her head. “No. He’ll have had time to double down his forces. I’m beginning to think Randvi was right. We can build our alliances, strike him when he thinks we’ve given up.”

Ivarr put the map away. “Should you ever tire of this peace and diplomacy, the offer stands.” 

He didn’t want to share his victory over Rhodri with anyone else, save maybe Eivor. She’d earned the right, he supposed, when her step father had died. But she wasn’t wrong, no matter how much he didn’t like it. 

“Ivarr?” Eivor started, pulling his attention back to her so she could look him in the eye. “When the time is right, it will be the two of us fighting him. Together. And we will bathe in his blood.”

Ivarr grinned savagely at the mental image of Eivor drenched in Rhodri’s blood, giving him the gift of the king’s head. It was the most attractive thing his mind had ever conjured. He’d fuck her then and there, should the vision ever come to pass. 

“I’ll hold you to that, Wolf-Kissed.” 

______________________________________________________________________

As they approached Ravensthorpe, Synin squawked above the boat and flew toward another raven coming from the direction of the hamlet, intercepting it. The raven, ever the loyal companion, brought the message the other raven had been carrying down to Eivor, who took it from the bird with a word of thanks. 

"Ivarr!" Eivor called him from his oar, "Ivarr, we've got a problem!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA I love Broder and Brothir. But I couldn't resist exploiting his attraction to Eivor.
> 
> Also, thank you for all of your lovely comments. They really do give me the boost I need to keep writing when I hit the wall. I appreciate every single one of you. <3
> 
> I've got some great plot points planned, so even though I may slow down in the coming weeks with my new job, I hope you'll still stick around for the ride!
> 
> Don't forget to give me your thoughts in the comments!


	12. A Rat in the Larder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a traitor afoot. Eivor and Ivarr finally share some feelings.

Chapter 12: A Rat in the Larder

_The Scimitar,_

_You have given me much to think about this last week. I too worry about the heavy weight on His shoulders. What you suggest is the ultimate betrayal. Rhodri’s forces killed the Jarl. Should we fail, I know I will lose my life and my love. But if what you say is true, then we have no other choices. The cause is worthy. This sniveling hovel and the wench be damned. They will learn respect, and suffering will be their teacher._

_I will meet you at the place you suggested when the moon of our meeting next reaches its peak. I will have your information then._

_Go in peace,_

_The Sickle_

:-:

Ivarr read the letter that Eivor held out to him, face twisting into a harsh scowl, made more pronounced by the scar that met the corner of his mouth. As he read the message it took every ounce of what little control he possessed not to rally the men, scream and thrash and burn until the fucker who wrote it was dead. It was written in Saxon English, the letters messy and unpracticed but still legible. 

“I knew your softheartedness would be the end of you. When we return, we will kill every Saxon in Ravensthorpe. That will cut the head from this snake.” Ivarr’s tone left very little room for argument, but Eivor still shook her head. 

“We don’t know that it was one of the Saxons,” she muttered, staring at the scrawl as if it would either burst into angry flames or suddenly explode with a thousand words to explain its meaning. The former was more likely at this rate. 

“What do you mean, woman? This is clearly Saxon English. Bad Saxon English, but still Saxon English. Your traitor is a Saxon.” 

“No,” Eivor said, again contradicting what Ivarr thought was a very simple concept. “This doesn’t look like a native writer. If it were, they’d be uneducated, and the words they use don’t match this. This is an educated Norse. Many noble Norse children learned to read and write Saxon after Ragnar’s success here.”

“Dag?” Ivarr suggested, taking a better look. He could see her point, even if he liked it less than his. At least his plan got them to the killing part faster. 

Eivor sighed. “He learned as a child, too. I won’t rule him out, but I don’t believe he has the wits for something like this. Or that he’d name himself after a sickle. If it were up to Dag to choose his own name,” Eivor shuddered at the thought, “it wouldn’t be that, at least.” 

-:-

Ravensthorpe was far quieter than Eivor had expected as her crew docked and headed into the barracks. They had been away nearly a moon, and instead of a warm homecoming, it felt as if a heavy cloud of thick poison was suffocating the settlement. Or perhaps it was Eivor’s own mood, heightened by Ivarr’s own sourness as he walked beside her, which caused her to view the settlement as such. 

The couple walked up to the longhouse with purpose, expressions severe. Both of them held an unconscious hand on the axes at their hips. Even the settlement’s children did not come running to greet them as they usually did after Eivor had been away. In her peripheral, she could see them in the shade of their porches, clinging to their mothers’ skirts. 

Eivor and Ivarr intended on making a straight line to Randvi to show her the letter crumpled in Eivor’s tight fist. However, when they entered the longhouse, it was not Sigurd who sat on the throne and listened to disputes, nor was it Randvi, his natural stand-in for his time of mourning. Extended though that time seemed to be. 

“Dag,” Eivor, placing the hand that held the crumpled piece of parchment on Ivarr’s back. To all onlookers, it would look like she was simply sharing his strength, but she had slipped the traitor’s note into the back of his breeches. She did not, could not, trust Dag any longer. Nobody, save for those that had accompanied her to East Anglia, could be trusted. Eivor didn’t even truly know that she could trust Randvi, but she could not bear the thought of her sister in law taking part in such betrayal. 

“I see you have finally returned, Eivor,” Dag sneered from where he perched on Sigurd’s throne, fat ass spilling through the spaces of the armrest. “It seems you and your great and worthy Ragnarsson aren’t too good for this place, after all.”

“What the fuck do you think you are doing in that seat Dag?” Eivor snapped. She wasn’t in the mood for Dag’s backhanded insults. 

“Me?” the bacraut replied with false sincerity. “I am simply doing what you will not, Eivor. I am caring for our settlement in the place of our Jarl.”

“You have no right,” Eivor protested. “Where is Randvi? It is her place to settle disputes when Sigurd and I are absent.”

“Sigurd and you?” Dag laughed humorlessly. “How quick you are to make yourself Sigurd’s equal. To steal the glory out from under our Jarl.” 

“I do not need to steal my brother’s glory. There is plenty out there for all who earn it. I know what I am owed. Do you?” Eivor hissed.

“Step aside, ergi,” Ivarr demanded, hand on his ax. “Or I will not continue putting up with the way you spew such shit at my wife.”

Dag finally stood from the throne with a winded huff. “Keep your bitch on a leash, then,” he muttered as he slinked out of the longhouse. Eivor’s strong grip on his elbow was the only thing keeping him from separating the great bacraut’s head from his shoulders. 

“Come, Ivarr. We have more important things to worry about.” 

He knew that Eivor was right, but gods he wanted to chase after Dag, challenge him to a holmgang. He wanted Dag’s blood to drip down his axe and sluice into the hardwood floor of the longhouse when he presented his fat head to Eivor on a platter. Maybe they could have two for the price of one and serve it up next to Rhodri’s, or put them on pikes outside the longhouse as a warning to future foes. 

The pair finally found Randvi in the war room, pouring over her maps and markers. To Eivor, she looked painfully tired. Eivor had known her for many summers now, and she had never seen the other woman so worn down. Randvi had always been a strong, resolute, brilliant woman with a secret penchant for wildness. She was a master strategist, an expert of the seider of numbers and maths, and a natural leader. She could also swing a hammer with the best of them and drink the stoutest Drengr under the table. 

But she was none of these things today. Today, she looked exhausted, defeated even. Beyond the war room, Eivor could see just a sliver of Randvi and Sigurd’s quarters. She could tell from the small visage that they were a mess, and Sigurd could be heard inside, rustling through chests and papers and items that had once belonged to Styrbjorn. 

“What has happened, Randvi?” Eivor whispered to her in quiet urgency. “Why in Hela’s name was Dag sitting on the fucking throne?”

Randvi shook her head tiredly. “Sigurd has been … unwell. And you know Dag. He couldn’t handle a … He didn’t like that I was handling affairs. He spoke loudly enough that Sigurd eventually agreed that he should handle disputes.” 

Even given such grave offense, Randvi was far too diplomatic to say as much. Of either man. 

“And why isn’t the throne occupied by the one who inherited it?” Ivarr asked. “He is in Ravensthorpe, yes? It’s his throne and if he is a man then he should claim it.”

Randvi shook her head. “He is beset by horrible visions since Stybjorn’s passing. He will not take his father’s throne until he is avenged, claims that the Draugr will rise to destroy us all if he ‘Does not do this correctly.’ However, he has improved enough that he’s decided that he’s going to go voyaging to help speed the process of securing alliances. Or so he says. I believe he is chasing something. I just don’t know what.”

“And the mess?” Eivor prodded. She knew that mourning often carried shocking symptoms, but she had never seen strong, sanguine, sensible Sigurd descend to such senselessness. 

“Styrbjorn was working on some very important matters for the clan, some sort of unseen threat. He hadn’t yet told us much. Whatever my husband’s mission is, there are papers he feels he needs. He’s been searching for days.”

Eivor and Ivarr shared a meaningful look. Eivor would have recognized Sigurd’s noble scrawl anywhere, in Saxon letters or Norse runes. The letters on the note did not belong to him. Whatever was happening with Sigurd had to be related to the traitor’s note. There was something afoot in Ravensthorpe and neither Evior nor her husband liked it much at all. 

“Meet us at the reveler’s hut when the moon is high, Randvi. We have things to speak with you about, but this is not the time or place,” Eivor murmured quietly. It sickened her that she couldn’t take the chance of Sigurd overhearing them, but she could not risk agitating him in this state, not until they knew more. 

“Alright, Eivor. I will see you both then. Go rest for now. Sigurd will be fine. I will be fine.” 

:-:

When they arrived at their bedroom, Ivarr immediately turned to shut the heavy double doors behind them, shutting out Sigurd and Dag and the rest of Ravensthorpe. In this place, it could be just the two of them. Eivor wasn’t sure when she’d gone from being resigned to a marriage of alliance to genuinely enjoying Ivarr’s company. She realized, mouth parting in surprise and eyes gluing to his face when he turned back to her and stripped out of his tunic on his way to the bed, that she trusted him fully. 

Ivarr was the only one she could truly lean on no matter the struggle. She appreciated his vigor and ruthlessness in battle. She was impressed by the intellect most others never had the chance to see in him, or perhaps never allowed themselves to see in him, his mind for battle strategy nearly unmatched. She admired his strength, his bravery, his wit. He was a great ally, yes. But more than that, she cared for him. 

She loved him. And the realization sent her heart soaring and terrified her in equal measure. Just because she had finally accepted what had been building in her heart didn’t mean that Ivarr would reciprocate. He was her husband, yes, but he didn’t have to love her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d think her feelings a sign of weakness. 

He shared her bed, fought by her side, and gave her freedom to act in the best interest of her- their clan as a Drengr. It was enough, even without his love. It would have to be enough. 

Ivarr looked down at Eivor as he approached. He’d intended to be asleep before his body hit the mattress. Now, though, she was looking at him strangely, a little dazed. It wasn’t concern or panic, nor was it the hungry sort of look she sometimes gave him, usually right before he took her to bed for reasons that were less than restful. Surprise, maybe? A little sadness. But that was absurd. He’d not done anything particularly wild in closing the doors behind them. 

Ivarr snapped his fingers in front of Eivor’s face and smirked at the way she shook herself slightly with a little sharp inhale that sent his blood pumping as she refocused on him. She was too easy sometimes. 

“What realm was your hugr wandering, Valkyrie?” he asked, sinking down to lay beside where she was seated, hands tucked lazily below his head to support its weight as he looked up at her. With any other person, he might have felt vulnerable in this position, and so avoided it. But not now, with the door closed and the only other soul in the room gazing at him like … whatever that was. His chest was oddly tight. 

“I-” Eivor started, but quickly aborted the thought, mouth opening and shutting a few times like a gaping fish before snapping closed. Well that was unlike her. Ivarr wasn’t concerned yet, but he was well on his way now. 

“Come here,” he ordered softly, settling back and reaching one arm out to welcome her to his chest. 

“Why?” Eivor blurted, giving Ivarr pause. 

“Why not? Am I not allowed to offer my own wife comfort when she is so obviously restless?” 

“I’m not a weak little girl, Ivarr,” Eivor croaked, throat tight. Despite her words, she felt weak, raw. Damn it. She told herself it was enough. It had to be enough. She turned away, sitting with her legs dangling from her side of the bed. 

Ivarr sat up with a grunt and moved up behind her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “You have dark thoughts about me. I have never accused you of being weak, Valkyrie.” Whatever doubts had taken the starry look from her eyes, he wasn’t having them. 

“I feel weak,” Eivor whispered, wishing it weren’t true but unable to give him anything but her honesty. 

Ivarr scoffed lightly and pressed a kiss to the sensitive scar on her neck. “We will meet with Randvi tonight. We will find the rat in the larder.” Of course, she felt the weight of the traitor in their midst, blamed herself. 

Eivor shook her head. “I know that. I- gods damn it, Ivarr.” She was frustrated now. Odd. 

“If you aren’t upset about the traitor, then be out with it, woman. I cannot ease your mind unless you tell me,” Ivarr tried, pulling her closer to his chest. She really wasn’t making sense. 

“Why does it matter, Ivarr? I don’t have expectations of you. You fight by me. You sleep by me. You married me. I don’t expect your feelings. I don’t expect your love. I don’t need you to pretend you feel the same way. I’m not weak. I can handle it,” Eivor snapped, rambling. 

Ivarr’s arms went a little slack around her while he processed her hurried words. She used the extra space to turn enough to study his face. He just looked back at her, a little shocked, before a carefully neutral expression took his face. 

“You really have assumed such dark thoughts about me, Valkyrie,” Ivarr growled, bringing his hand up to her cheek to keep her looking at him. “I have never pretended anything with you. Be honest and clear with me. Speak plainly, and I will tell you if I feel as you do.” 

He felt Ivarr lean into the hand at her cheek, and he could see the moment that her courage came to her, Tyr lending his strength. Or perhaps Freyr. She met his eyes and took her hand in her own to press against her chest, over her heart. 

“Despite my better judgment, you have taken my heart, Ivarr. I-” She hated the way her voice broke. “You have my love. I am not so naive to think that-”

Ivarr was tired of her excuses and assumptions. So he cut her off with a kiss. They had kissed before, many times. He’d certainly kissed her harder, deeper, in more intimate places. But he’d never kissed her like this. 

Ivarr kept on hand over her heart, feeling it beat a stuttered rhythm below his touch. The other came up to gently cradle her head, fingers threading into the silken tresses at the nape of her neck. He kissed her long and slow and sweet. He kissed her like he had no other wants or needs than to drown in her. And perhaps he didn’t. Eivor surged up into him, meeting him in every way, chasing his mouth with a quiet whine that she didn’t remember conjuring. 

When he finally pulled away, Ivarr didn’t go far. His forehead found hers as if he could meld their hugr together. 

“I told you to stop assuming such dark thoughts of me,” Ivarr murmured, a smile stretching across his face. “I am a lot of things, Valkyrie, but I am not without feeling. Despite what rumors my enemies have spread.” 

Eivor tried to surge forward, intent on getting him inside her and showing him all of her love, but he held her back. 

“Not now,” Ivarr sighed regretfully. “It has been a long journey home and we both need rest. Tonight, we will share our information with Randvi. Then, we will work on snuffing out the rat. We must rest,” Ivarr told her and laid back into his original position. This time she took her place at his chest happily. 

“When we find the traitor, promise me that you will let me have his head,” Eivor demanded sleepily. Her head was pillowed on his firm chest and his hand rubbed soothingly up and down her spine. 

“When we find him,” Ivarr grinned savagely, “I will gladly watch you cleave his head from his shoulders. I cannot promise that I will not fuck you then and there.” 

“Good.” And then Eivor finally succumbed to sleep after more than two days awake, the afternoon sun filtering through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that I left you all with that cliffhanger and then took so long to crank this out. Vili has been in my head a lot lately, and it took me a while to get Ivarr back in my head. I rewrote this whole thing 3 times. 
> 
> As always, thank you for sticking along for the ride and I love hearing your thoughts. I'd also love to hear your guesses on who the traitor is! ;)


	13. Fresh Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Randvi. Some brother-sister bonding. An evening ride with Ivarr. And some smut. Check out the updated tags.

Chapter 13: Fresh Eyes

The moon was cresting across the sky when Eivor and Ivarr finally made their way to the revelers’ hut. They’d both donned nondescript, black cloaks with hoods to shadow their faces as they walked across the settlement. Just in case traitorous eyes were watching. 

“You’re sure we can trust, Randvi?” Ivarr asked Eivor as they crossed the bridge. “The letter is vague. It could be anyone, and she does fit your description of ‘noble Norse.’”

Eivor paused, thinking about Ivarr’s words seriously a moment. On the one hand, Randvi one one of Eivor’s closest friends. She was strong and loyal, and the name “Scythe” was not fitting. Randvi was more of a dagger than anything. Quiet, unassuming, and small, but able to turn and gut an enemy without ever being seen if she really set her mind to it. Sigurd’s biggest mistake in life had been confining his wife to her maps and charts. She would have rivaled even Eivor herself as a shieldmaiden if given half a chance. 

All of that considered, though, Eivor didn’t think Randvi would do such a thing as sell their clan out to Rhodri’s med. She was certainly capable of deception, of reconnaissance. Sunniva was ofbten Randvi’s eyes and ears on the ground and the woman knew everything through her network of informants. But it was always for the good of the clan. She simply would not betray them. 

“I don’t believe it is Randvi. I trust her implicitly. She wouldn’t,” Eivor finally said. 

They found the woman of the hour already tucked away in the corner of the shack, lit only by the light of a single candle so that they could see but it wouldn’t be seen from outside. 

“Eivor. Ivarr. It’s good to be able to speak in peace,” Randvi greeted them. “What is this news that you could not speak of this morning?” 

Just like Randvi to get straight to business. Her sensibility was one of the things Eivor loved most about her sister. Eivor reached into her satchel to procure the traitor’s note. 

“Synin intercepted another raven coming from this direction when we were about an hour outside of Ravensthorpe,” Eivor explained. “This note was attached to its leg.” 

Randvi held the note in the dim light of the candle and inspected it thoroughly. Eivor and Ivarr watched Randvi’s face carefully for recognition or anything remotely suspicious, but all they could see was shock and fury. They shared a silent nod and a pair of relieved sighs. It was not Randvi. At least they had one ally to count on. 

“This is troublesome, indeed. You were right not to bring it up in front of Sigurd. Do you have any idea who could have written this or what it means?” Randvi asked. 

“Dag was our first choice, but he’s too stupid for something like this,” Eivor replied.

“And Eivor thinks it’s a Norse speaking Saxon, so she won’t let me just kill all of the Saxons,” Ivarr complained with a playful nudge at Eivor’s shoulder. Eivor just leaned into the contact with a quiet laugh. 

“That is, um, likely wise,” Randvi agreed. Ivarr certainly did have an odd sense of what she hoped was humor. She looked back at the note, searching for answers that neither Eivor nor Ivarr could find in it. 

“What would you have us do, Randvi?” Eivor asked. It wasn’t in her nature to sit idly by, but they had very little to go on.

“Sigurd is leaving tomorrow. He found what he needed. I believe he will take most of your shared crew with him wherever he is going and plans to leave a few of your favored warriors, though I did ask Sunniva to go with his party as my scout. You will also be left with the Ragnarsson raiders in the barracks. Ivarr, they are your old crew, yes?”

Ivarr nodded, crossing his arms as he thought. “Most of them are. Some are replacements, leftovers of the Great Heathen Army. Mostly Dane, a few Norse.”

“Do you trust them?” Eivor asked him. 

Ivarr shrugged. “Most of them, yes. The ones who crossed the whale road with me from Denmark. Others have not been with me for long.”

Randvi nodded, a plan forming in her mind. “For the next few days, stay in Ravensthorpe. Watch the people. Assist them as you normally would, Eivor. I believe that we have enough supplies to fence the cattle farm. I will work on finding your next pledge. Then, you will set sail with Ivarr’s crew. And we will see what you learn.”

It was as good a plan as any. If the traitor was one of their tradesmen or merchants, they would need to be here to sniff them out. If they were in the barracks, what better way to test their mettle than an extended diplomatic voyage?

The pair bid goodnight to Randvi and the three of them staggered their exits from the revelers’ hut to keep away suspicion, Ivarr going first.

Randvi placed her hand on Eivor’s shoulder before the warrior ducked out of the building. “Whatever happens, sister, promise me that when the dust settles, you will have Ravensthorpe and her best interests at heart. That you will be what our people need.”

Eivor looked at Randvi with concern. “You do not believe my brother is a capable Jarl?”

Randvi’s expression turned pained. “I care for my husband, but I also know him well. I think that he is prone to fits of passion and has the heart of a wanderer. He will do a lot of great things for our clan when his mind heals, but he cannot and will not be everything they need.”

Eivor nodded, considering the information. “I will do all that I am able for our people. In whatever capacity it takes,” she vowed finally.

:-:

The following morning, Sigurd sought Eivor out before he departed. He’d found her in the west of the settlement, scouting out which areas would be best suited for fencing off for the cattle. 

“Sister!” He called, jogging up to her. Looking at him today, Eivor almost couldn’t tell that he’d been suffering from fits of madness this last moon. He was freshly washed and his hair newly braided back in a neat plait. He was wearing his full armor, polished sword at his back. Most striking, however, was the clarity of his eyes. And for just a moment, Eivor let herself believe that everything was fine and her brother, who she loved so gods damned much, was okay. 

“Hej, brother,” Eivor greeted with a genuine smile and clasped arms with him. 

“Eivor, you are a sight for sore eyes. I almost regret that I will be setting sail so soon.” Gods, but he was so much like the Sigurd of her memory, when he’d tell her goodbye on the pier before going aviking while she begged to go along even though she was still too young to wield an axe. Those were certainly simpler days. 

“Aye, Sigurd. And you, as well. It is good to see you in such high spirits. Are you sure that you could not use my axe-arm where you are going?”

Sigurd shook his head, beckoning her to follow him toward the pier. “Not this time, Eivor. I will be in Oxenefordschire for some time. There was much that father never told us about this land, and I must learn its secrets on my own. I need you and Ivarr to work on gaining alliances elsewhere for now. I will call on you when the time is right and you will know how to find me.”

Eivor nodded. She had figured as much. “At least tell me that Dag will be joining your crew and not ours.”

Sigurd laughed at that. A loud, true laugh that made Eivor grin ear to ear. “Yes, sister. Dag will be joining me. One day, the two of you will learn that I have enough love in my heart for both of you,” he teased. 

She clapped her brother on the shoulder. “One day, you will learn that Dag is likely more envious of Randvi than me. His head is just too far up his arse to recognize it yet.”

Sigurd shoved at her playfully as he often had when they were younger. “Don’t let Dag hear you say that,” he whispered conspiratorially. “He will challenge you to a holmgang to settle that once and for all.” 

She noticed that he didn’t deny it.

“I relish the day,” she quipped dryly. 

They had reached the pier now, and the warriors Sigurd had chosen to accompany him were finishing the loading of supplies onto her brother’s ship. Eivor caught Sunniva’s eye and gave her a subtle nod. 

“You have chosen your crew well, brother,” Eivor complimented, looking over them. “Many loyal drengr. May the gods be with you on your journey, and may you return home with many tales worthy of the skalds’ songs.”

Sigurd pulled her into an affectionate hug. “Thank you, sister. It is my dearest hope that we will return the favor of the gods to Ravensthorpe through this voyage.” And there it was, the smallest hint at the madness behind Sigurd’s eyes. 

“I have no doubt that, when you return, our people will have their favor,” Eivor murmured, stepping back to clasp his shoulder one last time. 

“Their favor never left,” she muttered as the riversteed pulled away. “You did.”

:-:

Over the course of the next days, Eivor and Ivarr spent their time assisting the people of Ravensthorpe. By the third day, they had finished the cattle fencing and had watched as the beasts were led into their new home. With the extra space, they could afford to release the bulls in with the cows, and by next year their milk and meat production will have doubled. It was a good thing, Eivor thought, to know that the steps they were making now will have lasting effects, allowing them to keep feeding their people as the settlement grows. If they continued at the rate they were going, Ravensthorpe would continue to prosper and would outlive them all, a fine legacy to leave. 

It was nice, spending time with Ivarr in Ravensthorpe. They hadn’t spent much of their marriage in the borough at all, and she enjoyed the leisurely rides they would take through the forest behind the settlement in the coolness of the evenings. They had taken one such ride up to the abandoned watchtower to the north of the settlement, a leftover relic from the time that Ivarr and his brothers had inhabited the area. 

Eivor liked coming up here, where they were far enough away from prying eyes but still close enough to be down in Ravensthorpe at a moment’s notice should anything go awry. She had also taken to stacking cairns as they talked, the practice a soothing balm for her mind. 

“I will never understand why you stack these stones over and over,” Ivarr huffed as Eivor took down her cairn and began to stack the stones in a different, even more physically improbable formation. 

“It helps me to think. You must have still hands, a still mind, and a still heart to stack the stones. It requires great intellect,” she told him sagely. “I would not expect you to understand with all of the hot air that blows between your ears.” She was just teasing, of course. Ivarr was a brilliant mind, as chaotic as it must have been to be inside his head, but she could not resist riling him up a little. 

“Why you veslingr,” Ivarr growled playfully, lunging at her. He sent her stones skittering along the cliff side and his wriggling fingers found the soft curve of her waist. 

Eivor shrieked, something she would deny until she reached the gates of Valhalla, and struggled to throw him off of her. Her heart wasn’t in it though. She was cognizant of the cliffside that dropped off sharply just a meter in front of them. That was just what she needed; to kill her husband and be left alone to figure out this mess. 

“Take it back!” Ivarr laughed maniacally, straddling her waist and continuing to seek out the soft points of her body to wrench out her cries and giggles and gasps. The sounds made his blood begin to boil in his veins.

“Never!” Eivor grunted, bucking her hips up to unseat him and reverse their positions. The new position had her seated over the hardness pressing from his leather breeches and she paused, whatever playful insult that she had intended to spew frozen on her lips as she looked down at Ivarr. Their eyes locked and they both went still a moment before Eivor smirked and rocked back into him. 

“Come here, Valkyrie,” Ivarr grinned and she surged forward to press a heated kiss to his lips. He used the strength in his abdominal muscles to pull himself up as they kissed, supporting his weight on one hand while the other pressed up into her hair. He tugged at the braids as he gripped, forcing her to arch against him. 

“Ivarr!” she moaned, pressing her hips down more firmly into him. She could feel how he strained beneath her and a dull ache that only he could soothe started at the apex of her thighs. 

Ivarr pushed her off of him and stood, helping her up along the way. He pulled her over to the lookout tower, so that anyone peering up the mountainside wouldn’t see them. They climbed up about half way before he pushed Eivor forward until her hips found the worn wooden railing, and he stepped up behind her. 

Ivarrs hands trailed up her body, slipping under her tunic to pull it up and away, dropping it over the railing to flutter down to the ground. Her breast band followed shortly after, landing in a heap at their feet. His mouth sought the pale column of her neck, and Eivor let out a keening gasp as his teeth sank into the space below her unscarred ear. 

“Put your hands on the rail,” he ordered, pushing her leather leggings down over her hips for her to step out of. Any other man, or woman for that matter, would have found her fist with their face after speaking to her in that tone, but Ivarr’s orders only sent another wave of liquid heat through her stomach and she was helpless but to obey. She bent slightly at the waist, hands gripping the worn wood.

“Good,” Ivarr purred, and one booted toe slipped between her feet and nudged her ankles apart. She was bare and exposed in the evening breeze, panting under him while he was still fully clothed behind her. Any of their warriors could, theoretically, walk up the path at any minute on evening rounds and see her practically gagging for him. She knew it was unlikely; they’d seen one such scout not an hour ago. But she couldn’t help the thrill at the thought. 

“Get on with it, Ivarr,” Eivor panted and hollowed her lower spine, pushing her hips back toward him invitingly. She knew what the little arch of her spine and the curve of her arse did for him. 

Ivarr smacked her arse sharply at the insolence, relishing in the sharp cry it tore from her throat. But her words and actions had their desired effect. He unlaced his breeches just enough to pull his cock out. He rubbed it over her reddened cheek and smirked as it leaked against the irritated flesh. 

“Is this what you want, Valkyries?” he asked with honeyed false innocence dripping from his voice. He took his weeping cock in hand and smacked it lightly over the messy pool he’d left. 

Eivor let out a frustrated growl. This man would be the end of her. “Yes. It is what I want. Now get. On. With. It,” she hissed. 

“Cheeky wench,” He grinned, lining up pushing his cock into the soft, tight heat of her with unrelenting pressure. “Now was that so difficult?” 

Eivor could not bring herself to answer him, all words beyond his name and the moaning gasp that the stretch of his girth pulled from her throat forgotten. She used the leverage of her hands at the railing she was bent over to push back to meet him until his hips were flush against her arse. 

“Keep holding on. Or I will stop,” Ivarr ordered sweely in her ear, one hand gripping her hip with bruising force and the other making its way into her braids and pulling back to deepen the arch of her spine. 

Ivarr set a hard, fast pace. It was all she could do to push back against him, mostly to keep from being flung over the edge of the railing, and take it. The angle of their coupling made him hit something deep inside her with each thrust that took her breath away and made her absolutely wild for him. She wasn’t going to last long, but they were out in the open, exposed to the elements and any foe that found their way up this hill. It wasn’t meant to be long. 

“Ivarr ... Ivarr!, IvarrIvarrIvarr” Eivor cried his name with little shame, speaking it like a prayer. She couldn’t bring herself to care if all of Ravensthorpe could hear her voice or the wet slap of skin on skin as his bollocks swung forward to graze her clit with every thrust. Her entire world had narrowed to this singular point, to Ivarr within her and the band of heat within her, so tight she knew it would have to break soon. 

“That’s it, Valkyrie,” Ivarr murmured in her ear, his honeyed tone a stark contrast to the way he wrenched her head back further and thrusted impossibly harder within her. “Look at you, bent over out in the open, begging for it. You are a goddess among women and you are mine. That’s right, Valkyrie. Keep saying my name for the world to hear. Just like that. Do not stop.”

And she could not stop. Not even if she wanted to try. His name spilled from her lips over and over, pitch and urgency rising as she neared her completion. The hand in her hair let go, but before her head could snap forward without the support, it found her throat. 

He squeezed just enough to let her know he was there, to feel the pressure of him, to know what he could do to her if he so desired. He’d ended lives with far less. It should be wrong, should snap her out of it, make her turn around and snap his neck so quickly he didn’t see it coming. But it did none of those things. 

The band inside her snapped. She came with a heaving gasp, unable to suck enough air into her lungs, and her walls clamped around him. He gave a few more thrusts, helping her ride it out, before spilling himself deep inside her with a ragged growl. 

Ivarr’s hand dropped from her throat and he pulled out of her. He supported her weight with one hand while he unclasped his thin summer cloak and spread it out crudely with the other. He helped her onto it so she wouldn’t collapse and laid their with her, her head pillowed on his chest. He kept her close to share his body heat with her. 

After a few minutes, their breathing had evened out and Eivor looked up from where she was lazily tracing patterns on his chest. 

“Tell me about your crew?” She asked. 

“Straight back to business after a plowing like that?” he teased gently and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

“Most of them have been sailing with you a long time, as far back as Denmark. I would like to know about the Norse who joined from the Great Heathen Army.”

“You think one of mine might be our rat?” he asked, mulling the thought over in his head. “Very well. There is Harad of Overbay, Thror Bjornsson, Sif Eriksdottir-”

“Sif Eriksdottir? Why does that name sound familiar?” Eivor asked, pushing herself up to look at him. 

“Sif joined my ranks after she crossed the whale-road. Clan Hemming, I believe. She fought by their sides well, but decided to remain in Repton when her clan migrated north to Snottinghamscire.”

Eivor grinned and pressed a kiss to Ivarr’s lips. “Ivarr, you mad genius. I know where we will pledge next.”

“And where is that, Valkyrie?” he asked, unsure of where this was going.

“Snottinghamscire,” she told him, pulling away to start dressing. “Keep up, Ivarr. It is time for me to visit my very oldest friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is the longest chapter so far, but there was a lot of work I needed to do to set up the next major plot points. I didn't quite get everything I wanted in here, but I'm overall happy with it. Also, Ivarr decided that we were going there soooo- we went there. Please let me know your thoughts!


	14. Chapter 14: I Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Ivarr's point of view. An introduction to Ivarr's crew. Ivarr has some history with Vili but won't tell what. And he gets their crew caught in a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I changed my user name. Why? Great question! My students found my TikTok account (with no videos, thank the gods) and they were one clever Google search from finding this dump of viking porn. I don't want to accidentally expose them to that OR lose my job. Sooooo new name.

Chapter 14: I Need You

On their way back down the mountain to Ravensthorpe, Eivor had ridden much more carefully than usual while Ivarr shot her wicked smirks and teasing jibes from his silver tongue. By the time Ivarr and Eivor had returned their horses to Rowan’s care and trekked the rest of the path to the longhouse, night had fallen and a feast was well under way. 

Ivarr’s sharp gaze swept over the proceedings inside the building, his warriors mingling with Eivor’s and the other citizens of Ravensthorpe. They seemed to be fitting into this settlement well. That meant little, knowing now that one of the 

Thror Bjornsson was one of the several Norsemen on his ship, though he had been with Ivarr and his crew much longer than the others. He had long shared Ivarr’s battle hunger and, while never the brains of the operation, was wiser than most expected a man of his stature to be. He wielded two heavy axes when they went to war and was like a madman on the battlefield. Outside of battle, however, he was a kind and gentle soul, and he had taken a shine to Lieknir immediately upon meeting the smaller man, something that Lieknir’s brother Lief detested. 

Lief and Lieknir were a pair of Dane twins, nearly identical in physical terms, both lithe and blonde and pretty enough, but that was where their similarities ended. Lief was a serious fellow, good with strategy and not easily swayed, as well as a great advisor to Ivarr. His hair and beard were kept practical and short with no adornments despite his status. 

By contrast, Lieknir was the life of the party. He dressed in flamboyant styles, his long beard adorned with many fine silver clasps and hoops. His hair was kept long, curling beautifully down his back with several delicate braids keeping only what was necessary out of his face. Leiknir also loved people. He could talk with a stranger for hours as if they were the oldest of friends and had an easy going way about him that put everyone in his presence at ease. 

Thror was easy for Ivarr to spot, towering over everyone else in the room with heavy muscle to support his massive frame. He stood with a horn of mead in one massive hand, his other resting posessively on the shoulder of another raider, Lieknir Nasisson, whose brother was glaring at the two from the other side of the room. The pair was making easy conversation with the young Romanophile from the “museum” behind the longhouse, courtesy of Lieknir’s sunny personality and Thror’s ability to charm the pants off of any man or woman they set their minds to. 

Harald of Overbay, another of the Norsemen that had joined his ranks after the Great Heathen Army had disbanded into smaller forces, was at one of the tables, boasting about some success or another. The second son of a second son, Harald went through the world with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. It made him a ferocious warrior, but it also made him an insufferable bacraut outside of battle, especially when he was deep in the mead-horns. 

And then there was Sif. Sif was as cunning and intelligent as Loki himself. She was the daughter of a Norse farmer who had supplied Clan Hemming with wheat and beef before they had left Norway. She was to be married off to some greasy landowner from a neighboring clan, but had made herself useful enough to Hemming’s forces that she had managed to escape to England with them when they had traveled the whale-road in service to the Ragnarssons. From there, she had been crafty and lithe in battle with one of the keenest minds for strategy Ivarr had ever known. She’d soon risen through the ranks and had eventually come to replace Ivarr’s previous lieutenant when he’d gone with the Valkyrie’s to Odin’s mead hall. 

When he finally found Sif in the crowd, she was clearly making fast friends with Birna and Rollo. He’d gotten to know the pair a little on their travels to East Anglia, and he wasn’t surprised that Sif had gravitated to the pair. Her spirit for mischief was certainly kindred to theirs. When she introduced the two Raven Clan raiders to Lieknir, Ivarr and Eivor would have their hands full. 

Ivarr was broken from his thoughts by Eivor’s hand finding his and squeezing gently. 

“Where was your mind wandering?” she asked him, pulling him toward the large barrel of Tekla’s finest in the center of the room. 

“I was watching our warriors. My raiders seem to be settling in well, but I know they’ll be pleased to finally see some bloodshed. It’s been too long,” he told her, dunking his horn for the first time of the evening. 

She nodded, sipping from hers and gazing around. “They are. It’s a sorry thing that someone in this room is a traitor. We might have finally seen an age of peace, otherwise.”

“Peace,” Ivarr huffed. “Peace is boring. I’ll take battle over diplomacy any day.” His eyes closed and his grin turned a little manic, visions of bloody battles dancing behind his eyelids.

“And when all of your battles have been fought?” Eivor asked, curious. “What will you do then?”

Ivarr gave a short, barking laugh. “Drengr rarely live to retirement.” 

He said the word as if it were a filthy curse and he wasn’t sure he liked the way Eivor looked up at him, a strange melancholy darkening her gaze. 

“They do. But humor me. What will you do then?”

“I-” Ivarr paused. There was a time when the answer would have come easily and proudly to his lips. He’d find a worthy foe, challenge them, and go out in a blaze of glory while he waited for the Valkyries to take him. In another life, it may well have been Eivor, glorious and powerful as she was, who would have had that honor. He’d be proud to die at her hands. But now, he wasn’t so sure he’d ever be able to bring himself to ask that of her. He never wanted to cause her that grief, let that melancholy take her gaze for the rest of her life. 

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it, Valkyrie. We have many sagas ahead of us yet,” he finally decided. He kissed her forehead with a gentleness that felt both new to him and also like it was the most right thing in all the realms. 

Ivarr loved her, in his own way. He knew himself well. He was bloodthirsty and brash and more than a little insane at times, but he did love her. And he realized then what that really meant for him. He’d do anything to keep her happy, even if it meant delaying or giving up his own glory. Gods, he was turning into Ubba. 

Ivarr hid his grimace at the thought with a heavy drink of his mead. 

He was saved from Eivor’s curious gaze by the approach of Randvi, who rapidly distracted his wife from their previous conversation. 

“Randvi!” Eivor greeted with excitement. “You can stop pouring over your maps. I know where Ivarr and I will travel next.”

“Oh?” Randvi asked, helping herself to a platter of bread and smoked meat from the table next to them. “And where is that?”

“Snottinghamscire. You will not believe who has settled the area! None other than clan Hemming!” Eivor grinned, practically vibrating out of her skin. Ivarr had never seen her so downright giddy, and he was beginning to dread the next moons of his life. This wouldn’t be good for his sanity at all. Whoever this “old friend” of Eivor’s was, she certainly held them in great esteem. Randvi’s delighted smile just validated the pit in his gut. 

“You mean to visit with Vili?” Randvi asked. “That is a wonderful idea! I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it. Please give Clan Hemming my best,” she said in a rush. 

“Vili Hemmingson? That is your friend?” Ivarr growled, eyes narrowed to slits as he put two and two together. Now he understood why she’d perked up so quickly when he’d mentioned Sif and Clan Hemming. Which meant that she’d thought of Vili Hemmingson, Odin have his fucking head, while she’d been naked in his arms. 

“Keep up, Ivarr,” Eivor rolled her eyes. “I told you. We are going to see my oldest friend. I was under the impression you knew Clan Hemming from the Great Heathen Army?”

“Oh yes,” he nodded. “I am very aware of Vili Hemmingson. I just wasn’t aware that you had such poor taste in friends.”

“I married you didn’t I?” Eivor said shortly. It wasn’t really a question. He could tell that she had bristled at his comment. It served her right. Vili Hemmingson was a bacraut and a rake. “We will set sail tomorrow afternoon. We can stop and rest at Venonis for the night and make it to Snottinghamscire by the next evening.”

Ivarr shook his head. “If you insist that we go and visit him, then we should leave at dawn and rest for the evening in Repton. Venonis is frequented by Rhodri’s spies. My brother will welcome us with much more hospitality.” And he’d be able to talk with him about the traitor. And gods damned Vili Hemmingson. 

Eivor mulled it over a moment before nodding. “Fine,” she muttered, tone clipped. She retired to their bedroom without another word. 

“Inform the crew that we set sail at first light,” Ivarr demanded of Randvi, following after his wife. “Do not tell them where we’re going.”

:-:

The following day, Ivarr and Eivor woke just before dawn. Eivor hadn’t spoken to her husband since she’d agreed to his itinerary, had only shot him calculating looks as they’d dressed and prepared their weapons and supplies in a thick silence neither of them wanted to break. 

He assumed that it was because she knew that he didn’t care much for Vili Hemmingson. He’d certainly made it clear enough. If that was what had truly earned his wife’s ire, then he couldn’t bring himself to care. Much. Or maybe he was just good at lying to himself. 

Ivarr’s favorite version of Eivor was, oddly enough, when she was soft and pliant. She was usually that way when she was well fucked and satiated or when she was waking from a restful sleep, curled against his side and blinking blearily up at him as her eyes adjusted to the morning light. He didn’t like to think too deeply on that and what his pleasure in her soft moments meant regarding his own softness for her. 

A close second was an extremely pissed off Eivor, dangerous and sharp in her righteous fury. He called her Valkyrie for a reason. She could be both brutal and cunning on the battlefield. She was beautiful when she fought, especially when she fought angry. When she put her mind to it, she could cleave through Saxons and Danes alike with a force rivaling the destructive power of storms conjured by Thor himself. 

What Ivarr didn’t like, however, was a quiet, disappointed, moody Eivor. She was angry, yes, but her eyes weren’t alight with the passion that followed her into battle. When she did deign to look at him, it was with some emotion he had trouble placing, unused to seeing it in her. Worry, sadness, fear, longing, doubt? 

None of the words he knew quite fit, but something deep inside him didn’t like seeing her, seeing his woman, with that look in her eye. It wanted to curl around her, burr softly, and comfort until she became soft and pliant against him again. It was his realization of that part of himself, and perhaps, if he was being honest, his own fear of those feelings, which stayed his tongue and kept him from trying to bridge the forming gorge between them. 

Ivarr went to exit his and Eivor’s shared bedroom, but realized that he’d once again been stuck in his own thoughts when he found her blocking his path. 

“If you are going to be silent and ill-tempered this entire trip, you might as well stay home,” she told him, tone dripping with obvious false boredom. That certainly didn’t improve his mood. 

“Is that what you want?” Ivarr challenged. If he sighed in relief when Eivor seemed to flag a bit, well that was his business. She could be stubborn, but he was hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff. 

“Not really,” she admitted. Her shoulders dropped, and Ivarr could see, just for a moment, the weight that she was carrying. “I am sister to the Jarl now, and you are my husband, Ivarr. Styrbjorn Jarl is dead because Ravensthorpe is the new target of all of Briton. Sigurd is gone on whatever half-cocked mission he’s come up with. When he was here, he was half-mad and left Dag fucking Nithisson on the throne while we were busy building allies to fight the Britons. There is a traitor in our midst, and our home is in danger.”

By the end of her diatribe, Eivor’s fists were clenched and shaking at her sides and she was panting softly and the beautiful light of that Valkyrie rage had come back into her eyes. 

“I need your support,” she ground out after a beat of breathy silence. “I need your trust. I need you.” 

Gods, Ivarr was starting to feel like an ass. It wasn’t anything new, but it was very likely the first time he’d felt truly guilty about it. He approached Eivor slowly and placed his palms on her shoulders, ducking his head to meet her at eye level. 

“You have me. You have my trust,” he said seriously, his forehead coming down to rest against hers, nose bumping hers gently as he spoke. “We will need allies and your judgement is sound, Valkyrie, even when I don’t like it.”

Eivor pressed a grateful kiss against his lips and he responded by sliding his hands up to cup her jaw and the back of her neck to keep her from pulling back. He deepened the kiss and relished in the tiny, breathy whine it drew from Eivor’s soft mouth. Ivarr growled softly and stepped up into her space, intending to press her back to the heavy door secluding them from the rest of the settlement. 

Eivor’s hands came up to Ivarr’s chest, initially clawing at the leather straps and clasps of his armor before she groaned and flattened her palms to push him back. 

“Ivarr. We are going to be late,” she huffed. 

“So? It’s our ship. The crew can wait,” he tried, attempting to convince her. 

Eivor laughed softly and shook her head. “As much as I’d like a repeat of yesterday, if we mean to make for Repton by nightfall, we need to start rowing soon.”

“Tease,” Ivarr growled, swatting her arse playfully as he followed her out of the room.

:-:

They were lucky enough to catch a favorable wind on their journey north to Repton. However, that swift wind came from what seemed to be a storm brewed by the wrath of Thor. Though the morning skies had been clear, the sky to the south had darkened ominously beginning in the early afternoon. Eivor had kept a keen eye on the clouds in the distance, and by the time they were three or four hours out from Repton, she had ordered the crew to continue rowing even though the sail was up. It was in a last ditch attempt to stay ahead of the darkening clouds rapidly approaching from the south. 

“Fuck. Bragi! Call directions from the rudder,” Eivor growled when the wind shifted and brought with it the tell-tale scent of lightning and rain. Eivor took a seat at the bench next to Ivarr. She wasn’t sure her power would give them that much of an edge, but it was worth a shot. 

“How noble of you to join us doing the real work!” Ivarr teased. 

“Fuck off, Ivarr,” Eivor grunted, beginning to fall into rhythm with the rest of the crew. “We’d be safely under shelter if you hadn’t insisted that we detour to Repton! Instead, Thor himself is breathing down our necks. Last time I trust the plans to you!” 

“Detour?” an unfamiliar feminine voice chimed behind Eivor. _This must be Sif_ , she thought. “Is Repton not our final destination?”

“No more questions!” Ivarr barked. “Keep rowing. I’ll tell you when we’ve reached where we’re going.”

It dawned on Eivor that Ivarr hadn’t told the crew where they were even going. Surprise caused her rhythmical rowing to stutter, and she had to work twice as hard against the wake to fix her mistake. 

She smirked to herself. Ivarr really was a genius when he wasn’t sending them rowing away from a monsoon. If the traitor was on this river steed, it was smart not to give them more information than was necessary. 

Eivor cursed when there was an indignant squawk as Synin dropped from the sky to join Nali, the cat she’d picked up in East Anglia, in his protected groove. Not ten seconds later, fat drops of cold water came pouring down from the sky. She shut her eyes against the stinging rain, took a deep breath, and rowed a little harder. 

She was going to hand Ivarr his ass when they reached Repton. 

When they finally did reach Ubba’s capital city, everyone on their ship was fully drenched and shuddering, exhausted from the exertion of rowing for so long. The sun had just set, and took with it the muggy warmth of the sun that had made the rain semi-bearable. Even sunny Birna had lost her optimism somewhere around the last hour. 

She’d never tell him, but the thing that had kept Eivor going, kept her pushing on through the burning in her biceps and the chattering of her teeth, was Ivarr. Specifically, it had been the moment he’d given up on his soggy leather armor and taken it and his sodden tunic off. It had been the strong flex of his arms and chest that warmed Eivor’s belly and gave her the fire she needed to lead their crew through the whipping wind and cracking thunder each time Thor struck his hammer. 

Eivor needed a strong horn of mead, a change of clothes, and a warm bed. Maybe Ivarr’s head. On a platter or between her legs - either would do.

The pair of them stumbled, dripping and soaked through, into Ubba’s hall without so much as a word of warning. Ubba looked at them as if they were a pair of Draugr come to haunt him from his worst nightmares from the comfort of his throne. Perhaps they were. And maybe it was Ivarr’s poor influence on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It was technically still Ivarr’s home, too. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Ubba asked himself before shaking his head at the pair of swampy Drengr. “If you’re here, you need something. Your room is as you left it, Ivarr. Get dry, then meet me in the war room.”

“It’s good to see you too, brother,” Ivarr grinned toothily and pulled Eivor into his room. 

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Eivor began peeling off the wet layers of waterlogged linen and leather. Even her chest bindings were soaked through, and she hung the offending fabric over any available surfaces she could find in hopes that they’d be dry enough to travel in by morning. She could feel Ivarr’s eyes on her naked form, fanning the flames of heat in her stomach and making her thighs clench.

“Do you have a spare tunic left somewhere?” Eivor asked, turning around and finding herself face-to-face with a very nude and very close Ivarr. 

“I do, but I’d rather keep you naked and wet,” Ivarr hummed lowly, eyes moving up and down her body in a slow drag. A traitorous shiver ran up her spine, and Eivor could feel her nipples peaking under his gaze. 

“I’m sure you would,” Eivor simpered. “Your brother is waiting. We don’t have much time.”

Ivarr’s expression turned smug and he licked his lips with a lewd flick of his tongue. 

“I won’t need long,” he smirked, stepping up to place his mouth just below her ear. “Let me taste you.”

:-:

Ivarr had lied. He hadn’t been quick, but Eivor hadn’t cared. She’d come, shameless and screaming, on his tongue more than once before she’d returned the favor. She’d been loud enough, in fact, that jealous ears could hear each of her moans from the barracks tent outside the longhouse. 

In the light of a single candle, deceptively delicate hands snapped a quill clear in half, sending ink spilling over the half-finished letter to The Scimitar. The parchment joined the candle light and was gone moments later. The Scimitar would just have to wait for information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty. There's that. Eivor and Ivarr are at this point in their marriage where they're always horny for each other and also Eivor has a lot of stress. Ivarr's good for that, I think. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!! <3


End file.
